Reconciliations: A House MD Story
by pgrabia
Summary: A new face with a mission arrives at PPTH pitting House and Wilson in a battle for her heart while House and those around him battle for their lives. Who will win? Who will survive? Final Chapter up now! Rated M for violence, language and sexuality. OFC.
1. Chapter 1

**Reconciliations: A House M.D. Story.**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its concept, current story line and characters past and current are the property of David Shore, Top Hat productions and the Fox Television Network, all rights reserved.

Original characters introduced in this work of fiction are the property of the author; unless falling under the above disclaimer, names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales and persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Author's Note: This is my first attempt at writing for and I'm very excited to be joining the community. I welcome all comments both in praise and in criticism, but I ask that criticism be given in the spirit of contributing to the improvement of this work and of me as a writer of future fiction. This work picks up where the Season 6 episode "Teamwork" left off. Warning: This story involves major character death and is not suitable for teens under 14 years of age. This story is Rated T+ for language, violence and mild sexual content.

**Chapter One**

A Princeton-area parking lot was completely empty save for four carloads of teenagers gathering in the wee hours of the morning for a little innocent fun. The rain had subsided but the concrete still reflected wetly the light cast by a couple dozen lamp posts dispersed evenly throughout the lot. The teens began to emerge from the cars, laughing and kidding around in excitement. There were about ten of them in all, males and females, out way past their curfews, but that was nothing unusual. After curfew was when the fun really began. Kirk Gartner and his best friend Joey Preston were the last to arrive in Kirk's red Corvette. The car had been given to him as an early Christmas present by his parents and still had that distinct new car smell to it.

The high school junior pulled up beside his cousin Daniel's lovingly rebuilt 1989 Mustang convertible. He didn't really feel like racing but Joey had nagged him into joining the rest of their friends. Kirk had a headache that he had been suffering with for three solid days without relief. It was tolerable but hurt enough for him to be popping headache pills like Tic-Tacs in a futile attempt to get rid of it. He knew he was coming down with something and he suspected it was the flu, maybe even Swine flu, by the malaise he had been experiencing all day. His mother would be upset when she found out that he had been skipping the daily regimen of colloidal silver and vitamins his parents placed their faith in rather than "Big Pharma's poison vaccines".

Joey had bobbed up and down and all around the passenger seat, never breaking from talking to take a breath the entire drive from his place to the lot, which hadn't done anything to help the way Kirk felt.

Joey was already halfway out of the car before it came to a complete stop.

"Come _on_, Kirk," Joey insisted, "let's go help plan out the course before they finish the damned thing without us!"

"You go ahead, I'll be right with you," Kirk told him, remaining in the car. He pulled a bottle of ASA out of his pocket and emptied the last two tablets into the palm of his hand. He tossed the bottle over his shoulder into the small space behind his seat and then popped the pills into his mouth with a drink from his Coke to wash them down. It just had to work on the headache, or else nothing would and the pain would drive him crazy.

Kirk decided to let Joey add input into the planning of the course for the both of them and stayed in the warm car. His favorite song was playing on the stereo and he cranked the volume up high, trying to get himself into the mood for drifting. Joey was now running back to the Camaro with a piece of paper in his hand and jumped back into the car. Kirk lowered the volume again.

"Here's the plan!" Joey said, straightening out the piece of paper on the dashboard where they both could see it. On it a diagram had been drawn of the course the drivers were to follow around the parking lot and its various obstacles as they drifted. Each car would go individually around the route and would be timed as to how long it took it to complete the course. A panel of three non-driving judges would keep track of the times and rate each car on the skill and creativity shown in each drift based on a ten point scale to determine which car wins. The winner would buy the beer and pizza for the party being held at Joey's place Saturday night. Joey's place was selected because his parents were going out of town for the weekend.

Kirk tried to focus on the diagram but he couldn't quite get his eyes to focus well enough to see it from where Joey was holding it. He grabbed it from his friend and pulled it closer for a better look. While he could see it better, his eyes were still acting funny and things blurred in and out of focus.

"I don't know, man. I'm not feeling good. I got a headache and I'm not sure this is a good idea." Kirk told him with a shake of his head. "Maybe I should just sit this one out."

Joey's face fell in disappointment. "Come on, Dude! You don't drive and everybody will think you're a pus--." But Kirk cut him off angrily.

"I'm not, shut up you douche bag! I don't care what those guys think."

Joey shook his head and pointed to a pretty blonde girl leaning against the hood of a Sunfire a few feet away. "You're the douche bag! You want that honey to think you're too chicken to race her brother?"

Kirk shook his head. "I don't care what she thinks. I already have a girlfriend."

A frustrated sigh left Joey's mouth. "Damn it! If not for yourself, think about _my_ rep! I don't want to be known as the dork who hangs out with a coward."

Kirk glared at his friend for a moment, holding his breath to keep himself from spewing a flurry of curses at him which he would later have to apologize for. Finally he exhaled loudly in resignation.

"Okay! Let's get this—"

"Yes!" Joey exclaimed in victory.

"—damned thing done so I can go home and get to bed!" Kirk growled. "So help me, Joey, I get a scratch on this car because I'm driving with this headache and I'll kick your ass so bad that it'll be coming out your nose!"

"Ooh," Joey mocked with a smirk on his face. "I'm petrified! Besides, everybody knows you kick ass at this! JK, JK!"

It was decided that of the three cars competing, Kirk would go last. He wasn't thrilled to hear that seeing as it meant having to sit and wait with Joey jumping up and down like an idiot in the seat next to him. His cousin was chosen to go first. If anyone could beat Kirk, it was Toby. He tried to watch closely as Daniel completed his run cleanly, meaning he didn't drift into any of the lamp posts or meridians dividing up the parking lot. He kept blinking to clear his vision because no longer was it blurry but his vision doubled every so often now as well.

"I'm not seeing right," Kirk told Joey with apprehension. Joey just rolled his eyes in exasperation and turned his attention to the next driver who started off. Kirk wasn't interested in watching. Instead he grabbed the Big Gulp in his cup holder and began to chug back the rest of his Coke. For some reason he was incredibly thirsty. His mouth felt like it was stuffed with saw dust. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the head rest of his seat, trying to prep himself for his turn on the course. It was a struggle not to doze off in spite of his unrelenting headache. He was so tired and the Coke he had just drunk wasn't sitting well in his stomach. He couldn't wait to get this over with.

Kirk opened his eyes and lifted his head suddenly when he heard the sickening sound of metal scraping against metal. The driver of the Sunfire had hit a puddle of water wrong and tried to overcorrect but he ended up scraping the driver's side against a lamp post and then overcorrected again, spinning a one-eighty and slamming his back end into a concrete barrier before coming to a stop. The driver pounded his steering wheel with both wrists in fury and then drove his wounded vehicle to the finish line, his bumper scraping on the concrete along the way.

"Holy shit!" Joey shouted, laughing almost hysterically. "What an idiot! Did you see that, Kirk?"

"Not quite," Kirk muttered, but he was drowned out by Joey's laughing.

"We're up!" Joey exclaimed.

"I know," Kirk said grimly. Blinking almost steadily now, he started his car and pulled up to the starting line to await the starting flag—a green t-shirt donated by one of the guys and held by the blonde honey. His stomach was churning now, and he was afraid that he was going to be sick all over his brand new interior.

"Joey," Kirk said suddenly, "I don't think I should—"

He was cut off by the drop of the flag and Joey's screaming interpretation of it.

"_Go_!!"

It was too late to back out now. Gripping the steering wheel in both hands, Kirk punched the accelerator to the floor, his wheels spinning with a high-pitch squeal before finding traction and propelling the Corvette forward with a jolt. He forced himself to be in the present, to forget the headache and nausea-- and now the crazy ringing in his ears--and to focus only on the car and the course in front of him. The first half of the course was relatively easy and his drifting was perfect as he rounded corners and avoided lamp posts. He was starting to feel more confident in spite of how ill he felt and it showed in the greater degree of risk he was beginning to take. He knew the second half was a lot more difficult.

Joey was laughing and squealing—and talking—like a 12 year old girl beside him, and Kirk found it much more distracting than he usually did. He barely noticed that he was beginning to breathe harder but he was aware of the sweat rolling off of his forehead and into his eyes. That, the stinging of sweat in his eyes, and his vision doubling and re-doubling, was making it more to difficult for him to keep his attention solely on the car.

"Shut up, Joe!" Kirk told his friend through gritted teeth. The next curve he took too fast and lost control of the drift, nearly sliding sideways into a retaining wall before correcting the car a second before impact.

"Jeez, Kirk," Joey shouted, glaring at his friend with fear, "Watch what the hell are you doing!"

"I am!" Kirk screamed back. "You wanna take over? No? Then _shut up_!"

Joey backed off and was quiet for the first time all evening.

Kirk felt his stomach heaving and having to force himself from allowing its contents to come up was another distraction he didn't need. As he narrowly missed lamp posts and barricades it never occurred to him to just hit the brake and stop. There were too many other thoughts demanding recognition.

The finish line was just a hundred feet or so ahead now. All he had to do was clear the barriers on either side of him before drifting over the line. He felt his body beginning to shake and suddenly, just as his brain was commanding his leg and foot to press down hard on the break the muscles in his leg gave out. Kirk lost control as the front driver's side wheel hit a meridian, caught on it and then, like a sling-shot, sent the Corvette careening sideways to a dead stop as it slammed the passenger side into one of the final barriers. Joey screamed in terror, "Oh my god--!"

Kirk and Joey were jolted hard; Kirk's seatbelt felt like it was cutting into him like a band saw. Then everything was perfectly quiet and still for a few seconds. Kirk looked over to Joey. The passenger-side airbag had deployed, the only one to do so. Besides being covered in a grayish white power and wheezing from it, Joey appeared unhurt. He was in shock, but not injured.

_A miracle_, Kirk thought. He looked around himself dumbly, unable to take in what had just happened. Everything seemed so unreal. It was a dream, Kirk decided. It was all just a dream from which he had to wake up. He opened his door and struggled to be free from his seat belt. He barely managed to extricate himself from his car. His legs felt like spaghetti. He took a few unsteady steps towards the group of teens running towards the car. Why were they running? Was something wrong? Was someone hurt?

He wobbled unsteadily on his feet and looked back at his car. _Shit_, he thought, _Dad is going to kill_ me!

Before his next thought occurred, his head exploded. At least, that's what it felt like. The pain he experienced was like nothing he had ever felt before. He grabbed at his head, screaming and his knees buckled, sending him falling to the concrete. He couldn't tell if his head had hit the ground hard because the pain he was already experiencing was so excruciating that he never would have felt the impact. His stomach heaved violently and he vomited onto the concrete around his face. He saw red in it.

"Is that blood?" he slurred softly and then closed his eyes and let darkness envelop him.

Dr. Gregory House could have kicked himself for forgetting to turn off his cell phone like he did with his beeper before going to bed. For the first time in weeks the pain from his ruined thigh hadn't kept him awake for half of the night and he was having a good night's sleep. A sleep that was free of nightmares. The new ringtone he had downloaded, AC/DC's _Highway to Hell_, had ended that rare bliss. He opened two blurry eyes and looked at the alarm clock next to his bed: 5:30 a.m. Whoever was calling had better have his or her will up to date, House decided.

He fumbled a couple of times with the phone that sat next to the alarm clock before getting a hold on it and answering.

"What?!" House nearly shouted into the mouthpiece.

"_House_," an all too familiar voice responded immediately, unphased by the rude answer. "_We have a case. You need to get down to the hospital a.s.a.p._"

_Foreman_, House groaned to himself, his _favorite_ person in the whole world. He made a note to himself to put laxative in the African-American doctor's coffee when he wasn't looking.

"You've forgotten that _I'm_ back in charge," House accused sarcastically, rubbing one of his eyes with his free hand. "I decide whether we have a case or not and I say we have no cases before nine—no, make that _ten_—a.m. Don't wake me again."

His thumb was about to press the End button when another familiar voice, female this time, sounded in his ear.

"You've forgotten that I'm in charge of _you_, House!" Dr. Lisa Cuddy, Dean of Medicine at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital where he worked, told him firmly in her most authoritarian voice.

House sighed in frustration. She was one of the last people he wanted to talk to these days and especially not so early in the morning.

"I see you've decided to go ahead with the sex reassignment program, _Foreman_," he replied drolly. "I think you need to up the estrogen."

"This is not a joke," Cuddy responded mirthlessly. "I expect you here in thirty minutes!"

"Let me guess, Cuddles," House sneered, "The patient just happens to be Chairman of the Hospital board."

"No," was the cold reply. "His son." He heard the connection end abruptly as she hung up on him.

"Of course," he muttered to himself in disgust. _The son of god_. Well, he for one wasn't about to bow to the influence of the almighty dollar—especially when it didn't mean that any more of it would find its way into his bank account. The kid could wait just like everyone else. The fact that his disobedience would get underneath Cuddy's craw had absolutely nothing to do with his decision, either.

House slammed the cell phone back down on the night table and laid his head down on the pillow. He pulled the covers up around his shoulders again and tucked them under his chin. Wilson insisted on keeping his place irritatingly cold overnight. House had moved his bed closer to the heat register but it didn't help. Returning to the fetal position, he tried to go back to sleep. Just as he dozed off again, his cell phone rang again.

Growling angrily, he sat up in bed and picked up the phone.

"Get lost!" House hissed into the phone and hung up right away. He threw it at the far wall but miscalculated. It went flying towards the door just as it opened and his best friend's head poked into the room. The cell slammed him directly in the middle of the forehead. It couldn't have been a better hit if he had meant to do it.

Dr. James Wilson yelped from both surprise and pain as the cell clattered to the floor.

"--What the _hell_?!" Wilson shouted, shaking his dark-haired head to dispel the stunning dizziness the phone's impact had caused.

Despite experiencing a twinge of guilt House had to hold back the urge to laugh. He didn't succeed completely as the smirk on his face attested.

"Knock next time," he griped.

Wilson stepped into the room holding a cordless phone receiver. He frowned and shook his head. "I came to tell you that Cuddy's on the phone. She says—"

"I don't care what she says," House cut him off with a sneer. "Tell her to go take her PMS out on Lucas and leave me alone."

"I'm not going to tell her that!" Wilson retorted, tossing the phone to his friend. He rubbed his forehead gingerly. "That's going to leave a bruise." He turned and walked out of the room, shutting the door.

House glared at the phone in his hand for a moment and then tossed it aside on the bed without answering it. He was wide awake now, so there was no point in protesting any longer, but that didn't mean he didn't want to. He'd save his ranting until he could do it face to face with his tormenters. His leg hurt now. He rubbed it gently and then swung both legs over the side of the bed and slowly rose to his feet. Still in his boxers, House grabbed the cane he kept easily within reach and then made his way to the bathroom.

Locking the door behind him, House went to the vanity mirror and looked himself in the face. His closely cropped hair and trimmed moustache and beard were becoming greyer by the day. Should he get some Just for Men? _Forget it_, he decided. Chicks dug the mature look. It tricked them into believing he actually _was_ mature and responsible—why mess with that? Besides, he was fifty, not twenty-five. Denying that wouldn't change it.

He could hear his mother in the back of his head. _You're not getting any younger, Greg. It's time to settle down and start a family before it's too late._ She wanted the best for him, he knew. That and she wanted to have a grandchild before she died of old age.

"Sorry, Mom," he said to the mirror grimly. It just wasn't that simple. He was a bastard and he knew it. What woman wanted to settle with a miserable fifty year old recovering opiate-addict with a gimp leg that ran at the hint of emotional intimacy? Cuddy didn't, hence Lucas. His mother's chances of holding a grandchild before dying were slim to none. He didn't even _like_ kids. They were too little and needy—and they _scared the hell out of him_.

He debated shaving off the beard. He grew it because it had seemed like a good idea at the time and his personal appearance hadn't been foremost on his mind in Mayfield but now he wasn't sure if it didn't make him look _too_ mature. He shrugged, moving away from the mirror. He took a leak and then dropped his boxers and started the water flowing in the tub for a shower. Just before he pulled the valve to divert the water from the tap to the shower head he heard the phone ring again. He yanked the valve and stepped quickly into the very warm spray before Wilson came looking for him again.

After a leisurely shower he wrapped a towel around his waist and returned to the make-shift bedroom Wilson had set up for him after House had moved in following his release from the psychiatric hospital. He took his time dressing, selecting a pair of charcoal twills and a t-shirt that read, "I'm not deaf—I'm ignoring you." It was a nice touch. Cuddy would appreciate it, he knew. Pulling on a pair of sport socks and sneakers his outfit was complete. Now he was ready for breakfast—an omelet, bacon, pancakes with butter and syrup, everything suitable for a fifty year old to be consuming. That is, if he was looking for a heart attack. Oh, well, what the hell? You only live once, right? His life might be a lot shorter than expected by the time Cuddy got hold of him.

He sauntered to the kitchen to find Wilson already there. The coffee was already finished brewing, waiting for him. Who needed a wife when there was Wilson?

"Morning, dear," House quipped as he opened a cabinet door and reached for a mug. "Mmmm, breakfast smells _delish_!"

"I have your travel mug ready for you," Wilson told him, ignoring the sarcastic greeting. "Grab a whole-grain muffin on your way out."

"What's the rush?" House asked with feigned innocence. "You always complain that we never talk anymore."

Wilson exhaled loudly in exasperation and shook his head. He sat down at the kitchen table with his coffee. "This isn't a joke, House! That kid could be in dire straits."

"He's not," House assured him confidently. He grabbed the filled travel mug off of the counter and joined his friend at the table, hanging his cane on the back of his chair. "If he were, Cuddy would have known better than to admit that he was some hospital big-wig's kid." He grabbed a muffin from the plate sitting in front of him and eyeballed it unenthusiastically. "Don't you eat _real_ food anymore?"

"It _is_ real food," Wilson retorted, undeterred. "Passive-aggressively driving Cuddy crazy isn't going to convince her that you're ready for a stable relationship with her."

"Who says I want a relationship with her?" House took a tentative bite out of the muffin, chewing slowly. He made a face, gulped it down quickly and dropped the rest of the muffin back onto the plate with the rest. "That tastes like dog kibble—and don't ask me how I know that."

"Don't put it back with the others," Wilson protested, "you just had your mouth and hands all over it."

House rolled his eyes. Wilson could be such a _chick_ sometimes. He stood up and began to rub his hands across the tops of the rest of the muffins on the plate.

"There," he said, "now the others won't feel left out." He grabbed his mug and cane and headed for the exit.

"Great, perfect," Wilson muttered in disgust, first nodding and then shaking his head. He was not surprised in the least. He followed House to the door. "You're just going to quit and hand Cuddy over without a fight?"

House was growing very irritated with their entire conversation. Every time he tried to retreat into the comfortable familiarity of denial, Wilson felt compelled to try to prevent him. He grabbed his leather jacket from the coat stand near the door and shrugged it on. Juggling his travel mug and cane, he grabbed his motorcycle helmet as well.

"You can't quit something that fizzled out before it even began," House retorted. He opened the door. "Stop worrying about my non-existent relationships and start focusing on getting a life of your own. Amber has been gone for over a year and a half now and you're still living like a monk. We both know that she wouldn't have wanted that."

When Wilson didn't respond, House made his quick escape, shutting the door behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Reconciliations: A House M.D. Story**

Disclaimer: see beginning of Chapter One.

Author's Note: The reviews I have received so far have been very encouraging and helpful! The first three or four chapters are formative, but the action picks up quickly from there so I hope you continue to read along and my aim is to take you on a fascinating journey with our favorite characters and some new ones I hope you'll learn to appreciate as well! Please remember to comment because this is a learning process for me and your comments really help me a lot! I forgot to mention last time that the song that inspired Chapter One was "Running down a Dream." By Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. Songs which contributed to the inspiration of this Chapter include "Manic Monday." By the Bangles, "Love at First Sight."By Josh Verdes, and "What if I Stumble?" by dcTalk.

**Chapter Two**

Chloe LaSalle hated it when she slept through her alarm. It was only her third day as the new supervisor in a new job and the last thing she wanted was to be late and set a bad example. She had an abbreviated shower and pulled her hair back instead of taking the time to blow-dry and flat-iron it as she usually did. It was fortunate that she didn't wear a lot of make-up except when dressing for an evening out or a special occasion. That alone saved her a lot of time on a daily basis. She wasn't aware of the fact that she was one of those women who looked just as stunning without make-up and wearing a sweatshirt and jeans as most other women who spent all day in a beauty salon and wore designer gowns. When she looked in the mirror, she saw a relatively attractive thirty-eight year woman in good shape and health, but nothing more.

She threw on a lavender blouse with a ruffled v-neck that complemented her olive-toned skin, chocolate-fudge colored hair and dark brown eyes, and a black pencil skirt that fell just above her knees. A pair of comfortable but pretty ballerina-style flats completed her standard no-fuss, modest and respectable look. She grabbed her ID badge from on top if her dresser and in a full-length mirror she looked for a place to clip it where it was visible but wouldn't draw open her neckline and expose too much cleavage. In her line of work, that wasn't the kind of look that would earn her points. She appraised how she looked, turning around a couple of times.

"You're hot and tasty," a flat voice told her drolly.

Chloe turned to look at her thirteen year-old daughter who stood in the doorway of her bedroom.

"What am I, Sara?" Chloe responded with a grin. "_Un doeir leur_? If you need me to drop you off at school today, we need to leave _tout de suite_."

"I decided to take the school bus today," was the response. Sara leaned against the door frame leisurely and wound a strand of caramel-colored hair around her fingers. "Around here they call them "sweet buns", Mom. Nobody will know what you're saying if you talk about everything in French."

"Outside of this house, you are right," Chloe responded with a nod, "but inside these walls I will talk in whatever language I choose. I thought you didn't want to ride the bus because you don't know anyone on there?" She brushed past her daughter and strode down the hall towards the stairwell.

Sarah followed her down the stairs and to the kitchen. She sat on a stool at the counter-height island while Chloe fixed them both a low-fat granola and yogurt parfait for breakfast. Setting one down in front of her daughter, Chloe went to the refrigerator to retrieve the orange juice.

"I know somebody now," Sara answered. "She's a girl in my science class."

Chloe removed two glasses from a cabinet and poured juice for her daughter and her. Sarah began to eat.

"Uh uh uh!" Chloe said, giving her a knowing look.

"Oh, right," Sara replied, setting her spoon down and bowing her head. Chloe followed suit. Sara continued, "For this food that we have received from Your hand, Dear Lord, we are truly grateful. Amen."

"Amen," Chloe concurred and then lifted her head. "Dig in…you're bus will be coming soon. So, what is the name of this girl? Does she live in this neighborhood?" They had just moved to Princeton for her new position three weeks before and knew next to no one there yet. They had left all their family and friends behind, which had been very difficult on both of them but especially so for Sara, who tended to have difficulty making new friends. Chloe had been praying that Sara would fit in at her new school as quickly as possible to make the transition go more smoothly.

Sara shrugged, shifting a little uncomfortably on the stool. "Her name is Burgundy and she lives a couple of blocks away. I don't know her real well yet so don't get all excited, 'kay?"

"Okay," Chloe agreed, feeling a little guilty for saying so because she was already hopeful at this news. "Burgundy…that is an unusual name, _non_? Pretty but unusual."

"I said that to her," Sarah nodded, smiling crookedly. "She said that she was named after her mom's favorite color, but she hates her name so everyone at school calls her Dee, even the teachers."

"I used to hate my name," Chloe confessed. "I was the only one I knew named Chloe, and I thought that it was weird to have a name that sounded like a cat coughing up a hair ball!" She paused as her daughter giggled at this and then added," But I grew to accept it over time. Still, I always wished that your grandparents had really called me _Alaine_ or _Margot_." She shrugged, spooning parfait into her mouth.

"My name's not all that hot, either," Sara muttered. "_Yvonne_ wouldn't have been so bad."

Chloe took Sara's dirty dishes along with her own and stuck them into the empty dishwasher, smiling. "Sara was your father's favorite girl name. He once dated a girl named Yvonne and it ended badly so that was not an option. So Sara it was." She glanced at the clock on the wall. Realizing what time it was she sprang to action. "It is time to go! You will miss your bus if you do not hurry!" She would be late for work, too. It was far too easy for her to lose track of time when she was enjoying these rare moments when Sara felt secure enough to actually engage in more than the most superficial conversation.

Chloe hurriedly stuck the juice back into the fridge and then shooed her daughter towards the front door. They quickly donned jackets and scarves against the damp chill of mid-November in New Jersey. She had been told that it was unusually cool for that time of year. The weather was good, as far as she was concerned. She handed Sara her book bag that rested near the door and then grabbed her own tote bag and car keys.

"Do not forget that you start you piano lessons today with Mrs. Denotti, so I will be picking you up from school this afternoon," Chloe reminded her. "Be waiting for me by the front doors because we will be rushed to get there on time."

"Okay," Sara replied flatly, and opened the door, taking two steps before Chloe grabbed her shoulder gently and pulled her back long enough to place a kiss on her cheek like she had almost every morning since her daughter's first day of Kindergarten.

Sara wiped her cheek with her sleeve, and grumbled, "Someone might _see_, Mom. I'm not a baby anymore!"

"You will always be my baby," Chloe reminded her, setting the security alarm before following her out the door and then pausing to lock up the house while Sara continued down the walkway on her way to the bus stop. "I love you!" She called after her with a smile.

"Yeah, yeah," Sara acknowledged without looking back. Chloe shook her head, still smiling. So much like Joseph, she thought with mixed feelings and then hurried to the detached garage. Her 2001 Grand Caravan had seen a lot of road, but dependably it started on the first try.

_Thank you, Lord, _Chloe thought, as she had too many times before, _for another try._

As she drove past the bus stop, Chloe glanced out the window to see Sara walk up to a pretty blonde girl her same age. The girl, whom Chloe assumed was Burgundy, smiled warmly to see Sara.

_Bon_, Chloe said to herself, sighing in relief. Perhaps things would turn out alright for the both of them this time.

Traffic was congested, as usual, but Chloe had rushed to get ready to ensure she left plenty of time for the delay. She took the time to prepare her heart and mind for whatever God laid before her today. She needed strength beyond herself if she was to be strong enough to help others, to be a friend to people she didn't know from Adam or Eve, to stand strong against the discouragement, disappointment and overt opposition that were shot at her like flaming arrows on a daily basis. She knew she was not up to the task all on her own.

She arrived at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital with ten minutes to spare and sighed in relief. Parking in her reserved stall in the staff lot, she hurried into the hospital via the front entrance and made her way past patients, medical personnel and general public alike to the pretty sixtyish woman who sat behind the admissions desk.

"Good morning, Judy," Chloe said to her with a smile. "How are you this morning? Is your husband feeling better?"

Judy looked at her quizzically, momentarily forgetting her name before the light of recognition lit in her grey eyes. "Oh, Chloe, isn't it? I'm doing much better now that Arty's rheumatism has settled down again and he can actually sleep rather than toss and turn all night long. Thank you for asking."

"I prayed for the both of you last night and I just had to find out if things were better," Chloe told her with a satisfied grin. "I'm so glad Arty managed to get some sleep—and you too!"

The older woman shook her head in astonishment. "I don't know if it was God or not, dear, but I do appreciate your concern. I mean, you don't even really know me!"

"Well, that is a problem easily solved," Chloe told her with a wink. "We'll have to meet for lunch sometime before the weekend and talk. I have to go now, though, but I'll try to catch a moment or two later and make arrangements with you."

"Certainly," Judy responded with a smile. "I'd like that."

Chloe turned to walk away without looking first and found herself in a collision with someone walking behind her. The man she bumped into dropped his briefcase, which sprung open as soon as it hit the floor, scattering files and loose pieces of paper all around.

"I'm so sorry!" Chloe exclaimed, and immediately began to gather together his papers for him.

The man bent over and joined her in the task, "No, no, it's fine," He assured her kindly. "You don't need to bother yourself." His voice trailed off as they both stood up and looked each other in the face for the first time. He seemed to freeze in place, his eyes staring at hers for a protracted moment before smiling pleasantly. Chloe returned the smile and proffered the papers she had retrieved for him.

"Accidents…happen," he assured her, still smiling, not having looked away from her yet.

Chloe felt a little uncomfortable at being the center of his attention, but she had to admit, it was a little flattering. He was very attractive, in his mid to late forties with dark brown hair, average height and well built, wearing a designer suit underneath a long top coat.

"Well," Chloe said to end the awkward pause. "You are very gracious." She extended her hand to him. "I am Dr. Chloe LaSalle."

As if rousing himself from a stupor, the man suddenly moved again, shaking his head as if to clear it. His smile remained as he took her hand and shook it.

"I'm Dr. James Wilson," he answered. "I don't think we've met before."

"I'm new here," she admitted. "I just started on Monday."

He nodded, hanging onto her every word, or so it seemed. "So what is your specialization, Doctor?"

"I'm not an M.D.," Chloe explained. "I have my Ph.D. in Theology. I'm the new Head Chaplain. I take it you are an M.D.?"

"Yes," he answered. "I'm head of Oncology."

There was another awkward pause that Chloe felt the need to end as quickly as possible.

"Well, it's very nice to meet you, Dr. Wilson," she told him with a polite smile and nod of her head. "I really have to be going…somebody has to open the Chaplin's office…." She gently pulled her hand back from his grasp.

"Yes," he agreed, finally looking away from her face for only a moment, and nodding. "Of course. Me too. I have get going too, that is. It's great…great to meet you, too, Doctor uh—"

"Chloe," she corrected him. "Nobody calls me Dr. LaSalle."

"Everybody around here calls me Wilson," he told her. "But you can call me James, if you like."

"James it is, then," Chloe agreed warmly. "Again, I really have to go; I don't mean to be rude. Perhaps I'll see you around?"

"Count on it," he said absently and then stammered quickly, "I mean, perhaps, yes."

Chloe nodded in acknowledgement and then hurriedly walked away. She was not the type to believe that every man she encountered was instantly enamored with her but she knew when one was interested when she saw one, and Dr. Wilson was definitely interested. It made her feel both good and self-conscious at the same time, like a teenager who had just been winked at by the cute star quarterback of the high school football team. It was something she hadn't experienced in a very long time. She glanced at her watch and sighed: She was late, after all.

* * *

House's ducklings were waiting for him when he arrived at the meeting room adjacent to his office, where they sat waiting around a conference table reviewing copies of the new patient's medical file. Once again he had a new team, made up of old and not so old faces, whom he hoped to use, abuse and, perhaps, even impart to some of his knowledge and experience before completely corrupting then as responsible medical professionals. At least, that is what he had been accused of doing just the night before by his favorite former duckling before she stormed out of his office—and his life—for what , she had implied, was the last time.

At first his reaction to Dr. Allison Cameron's words had been defensive and angry, but now, after stewing about it for hours after their encounter, he wondered if she wasn't right about him after all. She usually was. Cameron had the uncanny ability to penetrate the protective wall he put up around himself and look into his mind and heart like no one else. So often had she been right about his motives that he had learned to confide in her things about himself that he never would have to another person—not even Wilson. He had used her brilliance, compassion and her professed love for him for the advancement of his selfish motives far too many times and had nearly driven her away once before. He wanted to blame that on the Vicodin and alcohol, but he knew better than that. The drugs had helped to dull his conscience while doing it, but it had been Gregory House who had been the son of a bitch committing the deeds without concern for the consequences his behavior had on her as well as himself. Why _wouldn't_ she assume that his influence on her husband was the catalyst in the destruction of the man's conscience that had led him to commit murder?

Cameron was gone and he truly was going to miss her.

House looked over at that husband who sat at the conference table just a few feet away from him. Dr. Robert Chase looked completely forlorn as he stared at a pen that he rolled over and over again in his hands. He hadn't shaved before coming to work and his blond hair was uncharacteristically unkempt. He wore the same shirt and tie he had worn the day before and it appeared that he had slept in them—what little sleep he had managed to get, that is. Dark shadows hung below his dead-looking pale eyes. House wondered if Cameron had already left him; the older doctor knew all too well what that looked like—after Stacy had walked out him years before, House had seen it stare back at him in the mirror for a miserably long time.

The other three individuals in the room didn't exactly look like the happiest of campers, either. Dr. Chris Taub never looked entirely thrilled to be there and likely was facing flack at home from his wife for returning to a job which he had left in order to spend more time restoring their troubled marriage. House knew he had absolutely no right to judge the plastic surgeon for past dalliances with his pretty receptionist; his lack of fondness for the man was due to his tendency to brown-nose and take credit for other's accomplishments regardless the expense of doing so. Lawrence Kutner came to mind, another duckling lost. House was guilty of many things, but his accomplishments he had earned on his own.

As for Thirteen—Dr. Remy Hadley to the world outside the walls of PPTH—and Foreman, the tension between the former lovers was tangible enough to slice with a knife. She sat with her chair turned slightly away from Foreman's in an effort to avoid looking at him and to send a very clear message: she was back for the job, not for the man who, in his hubris, had fired her because he felt her "irrational" inability accept his new-found authority over her at work was going to affect his relationship with her off duty.

_Oh well_, House thought without compassion for Foreman. No doubt there was no more pillow talk involving her bisexual escapades which likely turned on her partner more than her naked beauty wrapped around him between the sheets. It confirmed once again House's appraisal of the man: That Foreman was a complete and utter idiot.

"How's my dream team this morning?"House asked chipperly as he removed his jacket and actually hung it up on a hook rather than tossing it into his office, missing the leather sofa. He shook his head imperceptibly; Wilson's neatness was having a bad influence on him.

"Bored of sitting here for hours waiting for our boss to bless us with his presence," Thirteen said drily, tucking a strand of her long brown hair behind an ear.

"Never fear, your savior is here," House quipped, impressed with his own rhyme. "So, tell me about our little prince and his upset tummy and why I was roused from slumber to come hold his hand." He moved to the whiteboard and picked up a pen, ready to write down symptoms as his team threw them at him. He hadn't bothered to peruse the E.R. doctor's report that sat on his desk in the other room but no matter. They had.

Taub started first, opening his copy of the report to refer to as he spoke. "Sixteen-year-old male, one Kirk Gartner, formerly of good health, brought in by ambulance after collapsing in a pool of his own bloody puke in the middle of a parking lot at about four a.m. The paramedics who brought him in said that he and a dozen other juvenile delinquents had been stunting in the lot. Gartner, who his best friend said was the best driver in the group, lost control of the car in a relatively easy maneuver and ended up crashing into a concrete barrier. Both he and his friend appeared to be unhurt by the collision. Gartner was able to get out of the car but several of the kids there said that he seemed, and I quote, "really messed up in the head", having difficulty walking, stumbling over his own feet. Before anyone could get to him and his friend to help them, Gartner collapsed, puked blood, and then passed out."

Thirteen picked up the account from there. "When he was brought in he was semi-conscious with fluctuating levels of responsiveness, his temperature was one-hundred and two point eight, heart rate fluctuating between one-forty and one ninety beats per minute and hypotensive, B.P. ninety-seven over fifty-two. He was also sweating profusely and at one point had grabbed at his abdomen as if in pain. Cursory x-rays showed no indication of significant physical trauma from the collision. Gartner's friends turned tail and ran after the ambulance arrived to avoid the police whom were on their way and his parents were notified but hadn't arrived yet when the report was written up…there was next to nothing for a history taken. Drug and tox screens are in progress, but apparently the lab is behind and the results aren't back yet. The E.R. doc acted presumptively and treated him for drug overdose right away. The usual treatments—gastric lavage followed by activated charcoal, I.V. fluids for dehydration and antipyretics for the fever. There were no undigested tablets or capsules found but his stomach contents were sent for testing as well."

House quickly wrote down the symptoms as they were being described. He had an obvious diagnosis in mind but turned around to his team and asked, "Ideas?"

"Everything adds up to aspirin poisoning," Taub answered, ticking off his points on his fingers with a pen. "Disorientation, impaired muscle coordination and weakness and vision disturbances affected his driving, causing the crash. Add to that fever, sweating, bloody vomit—likely from the irritation of the increased acidity in his stomach and the blood thinning effect aspirin has—and decreased consciousness. What else could it be?"

"Aspirin doesn't provide much of a high," Foreman pointed out, reclining in his seat. "It's hardly a drug of choice for a teenage boy to be indulging in recreationally. He would have had to have taken quite a bit to account for the severity of illness observed."

"Foreman's an expert on it," House interjected snidely. "They don't push much a.s.a. in the 'hood." He glanced over at Foreman to see a reaction from him, but Foreman ignored the bait, denying him the satisfaction. That having fallen flat, House returned his attention to the others. "It's ridiculous to think that he would have taken aspirin for, oh, say… a persistent headache or anything."

"Even if that's so," Thirteen objected, "that wouldn't explain the fact that the antipyretics haven't had any effect on his fever so far and his level of consciousness is continuing to deteriorate instead of improving."

House looked over at Chase. The Australian doctor was staring at some indiscriminate point across the room in silence.

"Do you have anything to add, Chase?" House said sharply to him to grab his attention. "Fantasize about naked frolicking nymphs on your own time. Oh, wait a minute, that's _my_ fantasy."

The only part of Chase's body to move was his eyes, in House's direction. "I'm just wondering why we're even discussing this," he said flatly. "It's aspirin poisoning, case closed. Just because his fever hasn't dropped yet doesn't mean anything. If he still has a fever eight hours from now, sound the alarm. I say wait until he wakes up then send him home."

House nodded in agreement. "Sounds good."

"Shouldn't we at least wait for the lab results to get back and get a history from his parents before we kick him out onto the street?" Thirteen argued, frowning. "There might be something we don't know yet that will change the diagnosis."

"Fine," was House's response to her. "Go get your history and take Taub with you. Foreman, go lean on the lab techs and tell them that you and your 'peeps' are going to beat the hell out of them if they don't produce those results right away. Chase—stick around."

As the others left the room Chase rose slowly to his feet and waited for them to be gone.

"Follow me," House instructed, heading for his office and going to his desk. Chase followed as far as the doorway watching the older doctor suspiciously.

"Look, if this is about being distracted this morning, I think I have pretty good reason—"

"You're right," House interrupted quietly, catching Chase off guard.

"I am?"

House nodded once. "Have you two talked since last night?"

"I know that Allison spoke with you last night," Chase acknowledged flatly.

"Yelled at is more accurate," House agreed without the edge of anger or sarcasm in his voice that was usually there. He didn't feel angry or sarcastic. What he felt was more akin to regret, and perhaps even guilt, not that he would ever admit that to anyone.

"Well, don't worry about it," Chase told him, exhaling loudly and placing his hands on his hips. "I'm the one who killed Dibala—not you. It was my decision. I already told her that you had nothing to do with it and I made that clear to her."

Shaking his head, House reached into one of the drawers in his desk and pulled out a small piece of white paper. "Your association with me has corrupted your soul and now you are as beyond all hope of redemption as I am." Again, there was no bitterness in his voice. It was sadness. "Go home. Work things out; tell her that you'll get help and that you both will move away beyond the reach of my influence. Tell her that you promise to spend the rest of your life making this up to her. Tell her whatever it takes to keep from losing her. No job is worth that, not even this one."

Chase had a look of surprise on his face. "Why do you care whether or not my marriage survives? You made it clear many times that you believed Cameron was making a mistake being involved with me."

House avoided his gaze, looking down at the paper in his hands.

"I was wrong," he admitted quietly. It was becoming easier to admit that, House realized. He could actually get the words past his lips now without choking on them. He walked around his desk and held out the piece of paper to Chase. "It's the name of two therapists my psychiatrist recommended. One's a marriage counselor; the other is for you to see independently."

Chase made no move to take the piece of paper from him. He stared at it almost fearfully, as if it was some kind of booby trap that would go off the moment he touched it.

House nodded encouragingly, extending it even closer to him. "Don't be an idiot and let your pride get in the way of keeping the woman you love. Prove to Cameron that you're less like me than she believes. Take it."

Chase shook his head, taking a step backwards. "It's too late," he declared, sounding completely defeated. "Allison left already. She wouldn't say where she was going and asked me not to try to find her. When she's settled, she'll send for the rest of her things." He took a couple of steps towards the door before pausing long enough to say, "I appreciate your concern, House, but there's nothing left to be done."

House watched him leave and then looked at the piece of paper still in his hand. A wave of frustration hit him at the futility of it all. He crumpled the paper into a little ball and threw it in the trash can next to his desk. He had to find Wilson; he really needed to talk to someone who still had his sanity firmly intact.


	3. Chapter 3

**Reconciliations: A House M.D. Story**

Disclaimer: House M.D. is the property of David Shore and Fox Television.

A/N: Thank you to all of you who are following along. I hope that you are enjoying the story so far! If you have any comments, please share them with me as they help me improve at what I'm doing. The songs which inspired this chapter include: "Not Meant To Be." By Theory of a Deadman and "I Don't Care." By Fall Out Boy.

**Chapter Three**

Lisa Cuddy found him on his way to Wilson's office. House had wondered how long it would take her to track him down, and he was surprised it had taken this long. She had the "I want to have a word with you" frown creasing her forehead. House was more familiar with that expression than any other she gave him. It wasn't that he hadn't given her cause in the past, but it would have been nicer if she had met him with her beautiful face smiling up at him. When she smiled she won him over almost every time. He hadn't seen that smile since the 80's Dance at the medical convention a couple of weeks before, since he discovered Lucas in her hotel room and her life. He imagined Lucas was the recipient of that smile now.

"I didn't see you arrive this morning," Cuddy told him, falling into stride with him. "I was looking."

"That's because I _knew_ you were looking," he replied drily.

Cuddy ignored the comment. "There has to be a level of professional respect between us if we are to work together," she reminded him firmly. "I am your boss. You don't hang up on me, you don't display that level of disrespect in front of your fellows—"

"Or what?" House snapped a little more sharply than he had intended. "You'll fire me for not bowing and scraping?"

Cuddy stepped in front of him, blocking him from going any further. Her frown deepened but in her eyes was a look of concern. "What's really going on here?"

"You tell me," he retorted, trying to avoid her gaze. "You're the one full of surprises lately."

She sighed, looking away for a moment and then returned her gaze to him. "I never meant to hurt you," Cuddy told him, lowering her voice. "I told you that. When you were in Mayfield, I began to think and—"

"—and you decided that I wasn't responsible enough and never would be responsible enough to be with but Lucas Douglas was."

She recoiled somewhat. His words had hit the target and stung her, which is exactly what they had been intended to do. She would feel some of the sting he had felt. So why did the hurt expression in her eyes bother him? He forced that thought out of his mind.

"I don't have time to wait for something that may never come," she replied, shooting some venom of her own. "You went through rehab before but you found a way to cheat the system. How did I know that wasn't going to happen again? I needed—no—I _need_ to know that I have someone who will be there for me when I need him--when Rachel needs him. I just don't know if I can count on you to be that person. I don't want to become involved with you based solely on hope."

"But you can count on Lucas?" House asked. His voice was soft and he was beginning to lose some of his anger, in spite of himself. He hated to admit the logic behind her reasoning. Who wanted to wait forever for someone in hope that he may turn out to be the person you need when a person who already fit the bill was standing right in front of you? And yet….

"Yes," Cuddy answered with a nod. "I can. House, I have seen so much growth in you since you returned. I don't want to take that away from you. I'm very proud of you—both Wilson and I are—but, I need somebody who will be a support for me and a father-figure for my daughter right now. I'm sorry. It's just the way it has to be. I still want us to be good friends."

House nodded, feeling cold. _Friends_. The ageless kiss-off. Why couldn't women understand how ridiculous such a desire was?

"Were we ever really friends?" He said. "Or were we simply animals in rut, sniffing each other to see if the other was a genetically adequate mate?" His voice was like ice.

Cuddy shook her head in angry dismay. "It's possible. You _are_ a dog."

A cynical smirk broke on House's face and he was glad that his resentment had returned.

"If I'm a dog," he sneered, "that means that you're a _bitch_."

He used his cane to push her out of his way and then walked past her. Why had she felt it was necessary to drag it all up again? What point was there to that? It only created more tension, not less. If Cuddy wanted his respect, she would do well to just leave him alone. Reminding him of his inadequacies was no way to play at being friends.

When he reached Wilson's office he walked in without knocking, as was his style. Wilson was alone, sitting behind his desk with a patient file open in front of him. It wasn't the file that held the oncologist's attention, however. His friend held a framed picture in his hands, gently caressing it with his thumbs as he stared at the photo in it. House didn't need to see the picture to know who it was Wilson was looking at. Amber Volakis. Or as House had nicknamed her: Cutthroat Bitch. The love of Wilson's life that had died tragically from the same Bus accident House had survived. She had been on that bus, the wrong place at the wrong time, because of him. It was an incident that no one could ever have predicted. Her death had been a matter of chance, but she wouldn't have been there if he hadn't gotten drunk and she hadn't intercepted his call to Wilson for a ride home. It was still a subject that was never brought up by the two of them. It had almost destroyed their friendship and neither of them wanted to risk that again.

House felt uncomfortable. "I'll come back," he said, retreating.

Wilson looked up at him and shook his head. "No, it's alright." He set the picture back onto his desk. "What's up? Cuddy finally found you?"

Stepping back into the room, House nodded with a frown. He shut the door and sat down in the chair opposite the desk from Wilson. "The woman's a bloodhound," he replied and then smirked, appreciating the continuation of the dog metaphor. "She smells a wounded man and can't control herself."

"Not a good confrontation, then," Wilson said, nodding. "Need to talk about it?"

"Nope," House told him, nodding at the picture Wilson had been holding.

Wilson sighed at House's unspoken question. He shrugged, reclining back in his executive's chair. He took a moment before speaking. "I've been thinking about what you said."

House frowned, uncertain what it was his friend was referring to. "I say a lot of things. Care to be a little more specific?"

"This morning, before you left. About my getting a life?" Wilson reminded him.

"Ah, yes." House nodded, recalling the comment. "And?"

Wilson inhaled deeply and then blurted, "I met a goddess this morning!"

House couldn't hide his amusement at such a passionate confession, especially one from Wilson. He smirked and rolled his eyes.

"It's about time!" he responded, smacking the top of Wilson's desk with his hand. "I haven't heard you say that since before Foreman, Cameron and Chase walked out on me."

"Didn't you _fire_ Chase?" Wilson pointed out only to have House dismiss it with a wave of his hand.

"We're talking about the Goddess, remember? Who is she? A new nurse I haven't ogled yet?"

Wilson shook his head, smiling. "No, not a nurse. Actually, she's a new chaplain here."

House had to keep his jaw from dropping in disbelief. A Bible thumper? He appraised his friend. Wilson looked sane enough but so had a couple of schizophrenics House had encounter in the asylum. He had questioned Wilson's taste when it came to Amber, but she had been positively hot compared to the image that had appeared in House's mind just then.

"A chaplain?" House echoed, hoping he had heard wrong. "As in God?"

Wilson smiled in amusement and nodded his head. "Yes, chaplain. She is possibly one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen."

House was stunned silent for a moment, a rarity to be sure. He kept shaking his head as he spoke, "The words 'chaplain' and 'goddess' are more than incongruous. Chaplains wear turtleneck sweaters with wool skirts, support socks and comfortable shoes. Goddesses wear nothing which is why we worship them as goddesses."

"You really are a sick man," Wilson told House with a mixture of admiration and disgust in his voice. "This chaplain has legs that seem to go on forever and I was eternally grateful. She has curves in exactly all the right places and the face of an angel. She would make a hassock look sexy."

House still couldn't believe what he was hearing. Wilson and a Jesus-Freak? The idea was absolutely preposterous. House was never afraid to be the bearer of bad news, especially when it offered him the opportunity to ridicule.

"A Jew and a Jesus Freak," House quipped, "does not a pretty picture make. You do realize that you would have to convert? Learn how to chant, wear crosses, and have a lobotomy so you can fit in with all the other idiots in church?"

"You don't have to be an idiot to believe in God," Wilson objected mildly.

"No," House agreed sarcastically. "But it helps. Only an idiot—or a psychotic—could possibly believe in something that simply does not exist. There is absolutely no concrete, credible scientific evidence to support the idea of an all-powerful, all-knowing master intelligence that controls the universe like some perverse puppet-master."

"Let me play devil's advocate," Wilson said, and then realizing the irony pointed, a finger at House. "Don't say it."

House shook his head. "Nah, too easy."

"Some might suggest," Wilson continued, "For example, that a thousand years ago the idea that every single trait that each person expresses is encoded in microscopic strands of complex chemical patterns called DNA would have been considered to be the delusions of lunatics because the technology necessary to make observations at the microscopic level did not exist and so if something was not observable it was considered to be non-existent. However today, the technology does exist, so we have been able to observe it and test it and prove that it exists and the idea of DNA is no longer ludicrous. It could be argued that the only reason we haven't been able to prove the existence of God scientifically is due to the fact that we do not have the technology required yet to be able to observe Him and such technology may become available in the future. Just because something can't be observed doesn't necessarily mean that it doesn't exist."

House rolled his eyes. How many times had he heard that argument bandied about as if it was the definitive answer to the question? To House, it was much simpler than that.

"God does not exist," House retorted, "Because if He—or she—did, He would have done a better job creating the Universe than He did. That way He wouldn't have to be bothered with all of the bitching that is done over practically everything in existence. Murphy's Law would be a television show, we'd be out of a job and He would have created women with sex drive in overdrive and no vocal cords."

"You're a pig," Wilson told him incredulously.

House smiled, "Pigs just may have been somewhere in my evolutionary development."

It was apparent that Wilson was ready to give up the argument. He sighed heavily.

"I feel guilty about being attracted to a woman other than Amber," the oncologist admitted softly. "I feel like I'm somehow diminishing her memory and the love we shared. I feel like I'm cheating on her."

"You do realize that Amber is, in fact, _dead_?" House said sarcastically. "You were pretty good at cheating on your _living_ ex-wives but I don't think you're good enough to commit adultery on the dead."

House saw the expression on Wilson's face and realized that he had just stepped over the line. That was something _he_ was very good at.

"Look," House added, trying to mitigate the effect of his stupid comment. "I won't pretend that I understand what you're feeling. I've never had someone I was in love with die. Mourning someone forever doesn't keep them alive and with you. It just keeps _you _from living. Allowing yourself to move on and be happy again doesn't take anything away from what you had with Amber." House paused a moment, searching for words that didn't come easily to him. "I'm lousy at this kind of thing. If you had been on that bus instead of Amber and you had died...would you want her to stay stuck in mourning and miss out on being happy ever again?"

Wilson followed House's train of thought and shook his head. "Of course not. And she wouldn't want that for me, either." He exhaled loudly and nodded his head. "You're getting better at this sort of thing."

"Dr. Nolan would be proud," House agreed, referring to his psychiatrist from Mayfield. "So can we talk about _my_ neuroses now?"

Wilson grinned. "I'll have to cancel my afternoon."

"Shut up," House said, trying to frown. "This whole thing with Chase and Cameron is driving me nuts. Chase is moping around like a lost puppy and is of little or no use to me whatsoever. I really think he's losing it."

"It's not a big surprise," Wilson asserted. "I have no idea what happened between the two of them, but having his wife walk out on him less than six months after the wedding is bound to be hard on him—on _both_ of them. Maybe Chase needs to take some time off. You could suggest it to him."

House rubbed his eyes tiredly. He could feel a tension headache building behind them. "He's not exactly receptive to my advice. He needs help but he's too damned stubborn to admit it."

"Hmm, gee, I don't know anyone else like that," Wilson retorted pointedly. "It only took the threat of permanently losing yourself to psychotic hallucinations to convince you that you needed help. Convincing Chase should be a cinch."

House threw him an annoyed glare. "I don't know why the hell I give a damn. I've never liked that wombat to begin with."

"No," Wilson agreed, sitting up in his seat, "but you have Cameron, and don't deny it. I'm not suggesting that you were ever in love with her, but she definitely was teacher's pet."

House didn't respond. It was true. He had developed a fondness for Cameron that could have developed easily into something more had he allowed himself to go there. Why _hadn't_ he allowed himself to go there? Was it because she had seemed so innocent and good and he was afraid that he would have inevitably screwed things up and hurt her? Or was it the fear of being abandoned by her once she found out for herself just how much of an asshole he really was? He didn't know if he would ever know the true answer.

"House?" Wilson said to him after he had failed to respond to that observation. "You okay?"

"Yeah," House answered simply. Teacher's pet had run away from school. Everything was…normal, damn it.

A beeper went off. It was House's. He checked the message. It was Foreman, likely with the lab results they had been waiting for. Grabbing Wilson's phone, he called back.

"Foreman," was the simple greeting from the other end of the line.

"What's the news?" House inquired.

"I've got the lab reports," Foreman told him as predicted. "It _is_ definitely aspirin poisoning, but the concentration of salicylate is much lower than you would expect for the severity of symptoms being exhibited. It equates to the kid ingesting between three-hundred and three-hundred and thirty milligrams per kilogram. It's a moderately toxic level but not as serious as he appears to be. Also, he has an elevated white blood cell count which could indicate an infection of some kind."

"Screen him for common bacterial and viral infectious agents," instructed House, his mind running over the possibilities as he spoke. "After that, grab Chase and go talk to the best friend. He's more likely to know more than mommy and daddy would about Kirk's real habits and behaviors when they aren't around. "

"Right," Foreman said agreeably before hanging up. Every time Foreman failed to question one of his orders, House felt uneasy.

House rose to his feet, grabbing his cane. He turned to Wilson.

"Take the 'goddess' to that bar and grill around the corner," House advised, straight-faced, "and get her drunk—religious nut's tend to be lightweights—and sleep with her. She'll be more willing to disregard the Rules forbidding fun that way. If you aren't struck by lightning, it's a sign to move on with your life."

"I just remembered why I don't take relationship advice from you," Wilson told him with a smirk and a shake of his head.

"Ingrate," House shot back in mock-offense, and left Wilson's office. As he made his way to ICU to take a look at his patient—from a distance, of course—he met up with Taub and Thirteen coming from there. They had just finished taking a history from the parents.

"What did mommy and daddy tell you?"

"Other than their son being a saint?" Taub replied sarcastically, "Just that they're nut-balls."

"Helpful," Thirteen told Taub with a shake of her head. To House she went on to explain, "Mr. and Mrs. Gartner are devout believers in naturopathic medicine. Kirk and his siblings have never been vaccinated for anything, eat only organic, non-GMO foods and have been treated for common ailments with herbal and homeopathic remedies. As a child he had the mumps and chicken pox, the odd cold or seasonal flu from time to time, but nothing serious. In general he's been quite healthy. The only exception to that is he suffered a case of bacterial pneumonia a year ago but his parents said he recovered quickly with no complications or recurrences."

"Thanks to covalent silver and vitamins," Taub added sardonically.

"And don't forget Oil of Oregano and garlic," Thirteen grinned with amusement.

"Great," House sighed in disgust. "Are they raising a kid or making marinara sauce? So no antibiotics for the pneumonia. What about recreational herbs?"

Thirteen cocked her head slightly, "The mother said that he tried pot once and got violently nauseated. Kirk told his parents he had no intention of using marijuana or any other drug again."

"And if they bought that, they _are_ nut-balls," House retorted in agreement with Taub's earlier assessment. With his left hand he rubbed an eye. The headache had arrived and the pain in his leg was intensifying. He felt like downing a bottle of aspirin himself, just then. Or Vicodin. He shook his head. Damn the cravings!

"The lab results are back," he told the ducklings. "Moderate salicylate toxicity and an elevated WBC. I have Foreman running an infectious agents assay and I'm sending Chase and Him back to high school—to get the whole story from the best friend." House began to walk back in the direction from which he came.

"What are _you_ doing now?" Thirteen called after him.

House didn't bother to look back at her. "I'm going to go swipe some aspirin from Pharmacy," he said and continued to limp away.

* * *

Approaching the ICU nursing station carrying a file folder, Chloe asked, "May I speak to the charge nurse, please?"

A fortyish nurse turned around from speaking with another to face the chaplain. He was a dark-skinned African-American with closely cropped hair. He smiled pleasantly at her.

"That would be me," he told her. "Can I help you?"

Chloe smiled, extending a hand. "Hello, it is nice to meet you. I'm Chloe, from the Chaplain's office. I don't think I've met you yet."

He shook her hand. "I'm Neil. Nice to meet you."

"Thanks," she said. "I received a request from the family of a patient in this unit for a visit. The patient's name is Kirk Gartner and the parent's names are Francis and Mary Gartner. They requested an anointing and prayer for their son."

Neil turned to his rack of charts and brought one back to the counter. He perused it quickly and then nodded in confirmation. "The request is noted here. The parents are in the waiting lounge and Kirk is in room 2. There is a problem, however. There's a restricted access code on his file."

Chloe frowned slightly, "How so?" It was unusual for there to be restricted access for members of the chaplaincy or clergy when a parental request for a minor is made. Even ICU, such requests were almost always respected, considering the very real possibility of a patient's imminent death.

Neal checked the chart again and then gave her an apologetic smile. "You have the unfortunate luck of having the Doctor of Record being Dr. House."

"How is that unfortunate?" Chloe asked, having never heard the name before.

"Among the nurses here in the hospital," Neil told her, leaning closer to her and lowering his voice, "he's known by several names: Dr. Hateful, Dr. Nuthouse, Dr. Diablo, Mr. Hyde, sonofabitch House and a few others I really can't say in public much less in front of a chaplain."

Obviously it sounded like she was going to have a challenge on her hands, Chloe realized. She was well acquainted with difficult, sometimes impossible doctors who thought of themselves as God and resented any competition entering their territory. She was seen as a huge threat by them, some of whom were atheists who took her for a moron, and others who were agnostics who found her presence unsettling to their 'on the fence' position. It sounded to her like this Dr. House belonged in the former category.

"He doesn't like religious authorities," Neil continued with his explanation. "So he puts a restriction on his patients' files. You can probably get around it, but he has a special note that you have to get his permission personally, not from one of the Fellows working with him. That's how it's unfortunate. You have to go beg 'god' to let you visit his patients."

Chloe was astounded and not just a little outraged. She took a deep breath to soothe her temper, which tended to be her particular 'thorn in the flesh', her weak spot. "And where would one find Dr. Hatef—I mean, Dr House? Can you have him paged?"

The nurse nodded. "I can page him, but don't expect him to respond. Your best bet is to go in person and look for him in his office_."_

"Super," Chloe replied without the corresponding enthusiasm. "Can you give me directions?"

Neil wrote them down on a piece of scrap paper, handing it to her.

"Good luck!" he wished her and then went back to work.

Chloe stared at the paper and then sighed. Fun and Games. Before hunting down Dr. House, she stopped at the waiting lounge to introduce herself to Kirk's parents and explain what she had to do before going in with them to see Kirk. They were seated next to each other on a sofa. Mr. Gartner was a balding man whom she estimated was somewhere in his mid-fifties. He wore an expensive-looking golf shirt, pants and a watch her daughter would have described as 'bling'. Mrs. Gartner was fiftyish with perfectly coiffed hair who looked like she was all set to go shopping at Bloomingdales instead of waiting on news about her seriously ill son.

_Judge not lest ye be judged_, Chloe reminded herself.

After introducing herself to the Gartners, she explained to them about the special restriction which she needed to take care of first. Both of the Gartners were angered by the inconvenience and were prepare to go over Dr. House's head first but Chloe asked them to hold off until she had a chance to speak to House first. The last thing the chaplain wanted was to declare war on a doctor without first negotiating a peaceful resolution. Cooperation was essential.

Leaving the Gartners, Chloe headed for the elevator, following the directions she was given. When it arrived it was empty. She stepped in and selected a floor. The doors began to slide shut but before they closed completely, a cane appeared, blocking them and causing the doors to open again. The owner of the cane limped on. He didn't select a floor since Chloe had already selected it. He stood a couple of feet away from her, leaning most of his weight on his good leg.

The man was in his late forties, early fifties and was tall. She stood five-ten without heel s and had to look up quite a bit if she were to look him in the eyes. His medium brown hair was graying and blended smoothly into a short full beard and mustache. He was well built but slender and wore a bright red t-shirt that read, 'I'm not deaf—I'm ignoring you!'. What caught her attention most were his eyes. They were a brilliant blue and looked soulful in spite of his impassive expression. He was a rugged, unassuming kind of handsome that she had always found the most appealing.

_Wow_! Chloe thought, forcing herself to look away before he noticed she was looking at him.

"Why don't you take a picture," the man said suddenly, turning those blue eyes onto her. "It lasts longer." He smirked, eyeing her from head to toe and back again. "I have a few nude glossies left that I can sell you, cheap."

Embarrassed by being caught looking him over and by his offer, Chloe felt her cheeks begin to burn beet red. She hated blushing like a school girl. She forced herself to give him a bold glare, trying to appear unruffled.

"I apologize for staring, but you've been staring at me, as well," Chloe pointed out.

His eyes smiled with amusement but the smirk remained on his face. He ran his eyes over her body again for effect. It made Chloe feel like she was standing there completely naked.

"How much do you want for nude pictures of _you_?" he demanded.

He was certainly not shy, Chloe noted. Brusque, rude, lascivious—those were better adjectives to describe him. She reminded herself to remain calm and polite in the face of such arrogance.

What came out of her mouth, however, surprised her. "You couldn't afford them, "she told him and an instant later wished she could take it back. What was _wrong_ with her?

_Lord, help me to control my tongue, _Chloe prayed silently.

The elevator opened and he limped off in front of her, turning in the same direction she was. He walked a few feet ahead of her, seemingly oblivious to her walking behind him. When he reached a glass door and unlocked it with a key, Chloe was surprised. The door read 'Dr. Gregory House: DIAGNOSTICS'.

"I didn't realize you were Dr. House," she said to him as he opened the door.

He looked at her straight-faced. "I'm not," he told her. "I'm his gay lover. I'm early for our nooner." He walked into his office. Chloe followed him inside and stood just inside the door as he went to his desk.

"If you're gay," she retorted quickly, playing along with his odd game, "you wouldn't have wanted a picture of me."

He turned in surprise, not realizing she had followed him in but recovered quickly. He sat down behind his desk.

"It's for my mother," he said, frowning suspiciously. "She's bisexual." Then he demanded, "Who exactly are you?"

"I'm the Bible-thumper you've banned from visiting one of your patients, Dr. House," she told him sardonically, taking a few steps closer to him. "Chloe LaSalle, chaplain." She hoped that showing no fear and being blunt would cow this bully.

For a moment he looked confused and then a look of recognition replaced it. He nodded slowly.

"So you're the Goddess," he commented cryptically.

Now it was Chloe's turn to be confused. Goddess? What was that supposed to mean?

"I beg your pardon?" she said.

House shook his head and then frowned again. "Nothing. Which patient are you talking about?"

Instinct told her that House knew the answer to that. "Kirk Gartner," she said. "The teen in ICU?"

"Ah, yes, him," House said slowly, as if carefully recalling the patient and details of the case. "What about him?"

Chloe was losing patience with the run around. She knew his kind. He probably thought that he was somehow superior and was toying with her like one would a kitten by dangling a shiny object just within its reach and then yanking it away when the kitten pounced. She also knew that she couldn't let him know that his little game was getting to her. He would take too much satisfaction from seeing her lose her cool. She knew that she needed to have his respect or he would forever treat her so.

_So why do I find him so appealing right now?_ She asked herself in bewilderment.

Forcing calm upon herself, she smiled. "His parents requested that I visit with him and offer prayer and anointing over him for healing. I was told that I could not gain access to him to perform this duty without your permission. I am here seeking that permission."

For what seemed like an eternity for Chloe but what really was only a few seconds, there was silence. The doctor was staring at her with those piercing eyes that gleamed with mischievousness, studying her face, her breasts and then her face again. She could see an amused smile fighting for control of his mouth. Oh, yes. He was toying with her alright. She kept her gaze steady on him in an effort to appear undaunted.

"No," he answered quickly and then looked down at his desk and opened a magazine. He behaved as if she no longer stood in front of him.

_Imbecile arrogant_! Chloe yelled in her mind. She clenched her hands into fists but otherwise maintained a façade of calm and control. Her mind went through all of the possible strategies she could employ. The one she chose as the best was not her favorite. _Lord, forgive me for what I must do._

Chloe walked closer to House and then rounded the desk to stand next to his chair. He continued to pretend that he was oblivious of her. She inched even closer until her hip brushed the arm rest. She couldn't help but notice how good he smelled. _Foyer!_ She told herself sternly. Focus. Ever so slowly, she leaned closer as if she was trying to read the magazine with him. With her left hand she snaked her arm around his back and rested it on the top of the seat. With cat-like grace she leaned in closer until her face was only an inch or two from his. He continued reading but she could hear his breathing speed up and his there was a tremor of his hand as he turned the page.

She could feel the warmth radiating from his face on her cheek. Her heartbeat was beating harder and she fought to keep herself from trembling. Every so often she could see his eyes dart in her direction for a fraction of a second before rushing back to the magazine. The smell of him was almost intoxicating. She eyed the distance to the magazine, the increasing tremor of his hand, counted the rhythm of his quick breathing….

With lightening speed and reflexes she pounced, snatching the magazine from his hand. She recoiled, and smacked the doctor across the back of his head with it. Catching him off guard like she did, she watched him as he recoiled from the swat and propelled himself on the desk chair to the left while spinning in her direction. His hands flew up to block another possible blow, and everything seemed to take place in slow-motion.

"What the hell??!" he shouted out in surprise and almost flipped over backwards in his chair. If Chloe hadn't been so angry and so astounded by what she had just done, she would have laughed at the expression on his face. Her heart beat loudly in her ears.

"I will not be dismissed like a child!" She told him loudly, gesturing at him with the magazine still in her hand. "And I do not like bullies. You and I are going to come to an understanding right here and right now, Doctor!"

When she was excited her accent was much thicker than usual.

House righted himself in his seat, outraged. He held his head where the magazine had made contact. For no more than a second he was speechless, and then he launched a full salvo of expletives and jumped to his feet.

"Who the hell do you think you are marching into my office and assaulting me with my own magazine—"

"Be quiet!" Chloe snapped, cutting him off. She glanced at the cover of the magazine and then dropped it back onto the desk in disgust.

"'Playboy,'" she muttered. "Not surprising." Much more loudly she said to him, "I think that I am a servant of God who has been called to minister to a sick boy and his parents and I think you are an arrogant—creep! -- who is trying to impose his own ignorant prejudice on them and me!" She paused a moment to take a breath and get her calm back. In a much quieter volume she continued, "I know how you think, Dr. House. You see me as some snake oil-selling opportunist trying to confuse and take advantage of people at their most vulnerable. Or perhaps you think of me as a vulture circling above a wounded animal, waiting for the second the animal dies to descend and begin to peck its eyes out. Or perhaps I am some schizophrenic cult member trying to brainwash a young man and his family into standing around in airports selling salvation at fifty bucks a pop!"

As she stopped for breath, the doctor opened his mouth but before he could engage his vocal cords the chaplain was speaking again.

"I have no ulterior motives, Dr. House. I have chosen this vocation because I feel God has called me to be a source of help, support and comfort for people in deep need of those things. I have no intention of proselytizing people who are not seeking, standing in judgment of others' weaknesses and failures or offering false hope with empty assurances of things that only God can provide if it is His will to do so. I am not a goody-goody who thinks she is more pious than anyone else or that earns points in heaven with every conversion. I do my best to accept all people and to treat them with equal dignity without compromising that which I believe is moral and true according to the Scriptures. I will not waste my time arguing with you or anyone else over the existence of God nor will I preach at anyone. All I want to do is meet the spiritual needs of your patients and their families as they request my services. I don't care if you think I am deluded or stupid or crazy. What you believe does not matter to me in the slightest. What I expect from you is to show your patients and me the same dignity and respect with which you expect to be treated.

"So," Chloe concluded, pausing again for breath. "I am going to walk out of here, head down to Kirk Gartner's room and, with his parent's permission, I will pray for him and you will grant your permission or I will march right across your scalp to your superiors. We are going to cooperate with each other in a professional, dignified manner, Doctor, _oui_? Even if it means I have to smack a little sense into your head to make it happen! Are we completely clear?"

House looked completely astounded and took a few seconds before venturing to speak. His eyes stared back at the chaplain intensely but without the anger she had expected. He then looked away briefly and gave her a single nod before looking at her again.

"We're clear," he told her simply and there was a hint of respect in the sound of his voice. It wasn't fear or intimidation or even regret that she heard. It was the kind of respect one showed for one's equal. Her message seemed to have gotten through after all. Either that or he was more impressed with her breasts than she thought.

Chloe allowed herself to relax a bit. She smiled suspiciously and nodded in appreciation.

"This seems a little too easy," she told him softly.

"It is," he replied with a mischievous smirk. "Watch your back for flying magazines."

She nodded. "I always do. Thank you for your cooperation, Dr. House." Almost instinctively, she checked his hands to make certain they were empty before turning her back on him and walking out of his office. When she knew he couldn't see her any longer, she broke into a grin and shook her head in amazement. She still had a little feistiness left in her after all!

* * *

House watched her hips sway rhythmically as the Goddess marched confidently out of his office. He allowed himself a smile. He had nearly lost it when she hovered beside him close enough to feel her warmth on his skin, smell her delicate scent—what was it?—rosewater? The flame in her eyes, the blush of her skin, the strength and unassuming sexiness she exuded from every pore in her body…it was intoxicating. If she had actually touched him at any point, he would have succumbed to anything she suggested. Perhaps most alluring of all was the sincerity in her voice and eyes, and her honest, though deluded, belief in what she did.

Chloe LaSalle was a surprise, certainly not what he had been expecting. Wilson hadn't been exaggerating.

_Wilson._ House had forgotten his friend's interest in the Goddess, and how it made things complicated. He was no less interested in the hunt, but House didn't want to break the Code. Still Wilson was only having lunch with her, not planning their wedding. The Code didn't really apply, yet, did it? House decided he would have to proceed carefully, but proceed he would.


	4. Chapter 4

**Reconciliations: A House M.D. Story**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its concept, current story line and characters past and current are the property of David Shore and the Fox Television Network, all rights reserved.

A/N: Once again, thank you for the fantastic comments that I have received and please keep them coming! I noticed that after I published Chapter Three I found a few typographical errors and word omissions I missed while editing it, so my apologies. I'll try to be more meticulous from here on.

Songs that have inspired this chapter include: "Now You're Gone." By Basshunter, and "Missing You." By John Waite.

**Chapter Four**

Chase and Foreman took the latter's car to Kirk Gartner's high school, John Adams Composite, to interview their patient's best friend in hopes of learning something new which would help them diagnose and treat him. It wasn't the first time House had sent them on a field trip as part of their grunt work for him. Chase didn't mind the occasional reason to work outside of the hospital, even though he made certain House and the rest of the team believed the opposite. He didn't want to end up doing it all of the time instead of actually working "hands-on" with patients.

On this particular day, however, the Australian-born surgeon wasn't all that excited about doing much of anything. What he really wanted to do was hide in some dark corner of the hospital nursing his hangover or, better yet, be somewhere else treating it with 'a hair (or two) of the dog that bit him'. Anything would have been better than sitting in the confines of a car with someone who didn't know when to leave something alone that was none of his business.

"Maybe she just needs time," Foreman was saying. The car stopped at a red light and he looked over at Chase. "We're talking about Cameron. She doesn't know how to hold a grudge for more than a couple of days."

Chase rolled his eyes and sighed. "Can we just drop this, please? I'm sick of talking about my personal life with every person who thinks they have thought of something I haven't yet."

"But you need to be talking about it," Foreman said authoritatively, just as he did with everything.

"No," Chase snapped. He'd had more than enough. "I don't! You may need to talk about your personal problems, but I don't. Talking about things does not make things any better. The next person who tells me I need to talk about it is going to need some emergency dental work!"

Chase turned his head to look out the passenger-side window. A lazy, cold drizzle began to fall, streaking the window and wetting down the pavement that seemed to roll past the car in a blur. The weather matched his mood perfectly. It was grey, dismal and cold, the way he had felt when he looked out his bedroom window the night before, watching the woman he loved more than anything else in the world climb into a cab without a single look back and drive away out of his life. He'd spent the rest of the evening becoming better acquainted with the bottom of a Jack Daniels bottle, the numbness of intoxication a welcome relief, at least for a while.

Arriving at the high school, they reported at the office; they were led right away into the Principal's office where Mr. Fielding was waiting for them. Also in the office was a teenager the same age as Kirk Gartner who was squirming uncomfortably in his seat. The boy was shorter in height and didn't have the athletic build their patient had. He seemed unable to remain still for even a moment. His legs bounced, and he was wringing his hands together anxiously.

Chase had the sudden urge to pull out a prescription pad and write out an order for a hefty dose of Ritalin on the spot. He shook the Principal's hand when it was offered to him and took a seat next to Foreman on a leather couch that faced Joey Preston.

"Thank you again for allowing us to come on short notice," Foreman told Fielding.

The principal nodded. "You're welcome. Anything we can do to help you to treat one of our star students. Joey's father gave his consent for you to ask him a few questions so long as I remained present with his son."

Chase frowned at that. They wanted to speak to Joey alone so the kid would feel safe enough to answer their questions honestly. If Fielding stayed in the room, Joey might be reluctant to give truthful answers to their questions, especially if there was the possibility that word of what he said could get back to his parents or would get him in trouble with the school. He glanced over at Foreman and by the look on the African-American's face Chase could tell that he was thinking the same thing.

"Actually," Chase spoke up, trying to choose his words carefully, "we were hoping to speak with Joey alone. Is that out of the question?"

"I'm afraid it is," Fielding told them with a hint of a frown. "Joey's father was quite adamant that I be here to protect his son's interest. He is a minor, you understand?"

"Yes, of course," Foreman spoke up, nodded. "We just want Joey to feel free to answer our questions as honestly as possible without fear of reprisal. If we could have your assurance, Mr. Fielding, that what Joey tells us is off the record and will remain within this room we're fine with your presence here during our conversation." Before Fielding could reply, Foreman turned his attention to the teen. "Does that sound okay to you, Joey?"

The wriggling teen nodded yes; he was now chewing nervously on the cuticles of his fingernails.

Fielding's frown was no longer a hint. He seemed about to disagree but then backed off. He nodded in agreement and sat back in his chair with his arms crossed in front of him. It still wasn't the best of situations but Chase figured it was better than nothing.

Foreman began the questioning. "Joey, we're not here to get anyone in trouble or to snitch on you to your parents, okay? We just need you to answer a few things for us so we can help Kirk get better. Are we cool with that?"

Joey shrugged and then nodded. "Sure, I guess." He spoke with his fingers still in his mouth. The kid looked scared, and Chase doubted they were going to get anything useful out of him.

They began with a few preliminary questions, the answers to which they already knew, in order to set Joey at ease. Joey told them that Kirk hadn't felt well before the race the night before, complaining of a headache.

"Did he complain of anything else?" was Foreman's next question.

"No," Joey said slowly. "Oh, wait a minute. He did say that he was really tired and he just wanted to go to bed. I thought that was kinda weird."

"Why?"

"'Cause Kirk's never tired," Joey told him with a cock-eyed grin. "He's usually the one who's the life of the party, never wants to go home."

Chase spoke up. "Did Kirk take anything other than aspirin, Joey?"

The teen looked at Chase suspiciously and was slow to respond. "I don't know what you mean."

_Here we go,_ Chase said to himself, his concerns being confirmed. "Did Kirk do any drugs last night? It's important that we know the truth if we're going to be able to treat him. We're not cops and Mr. Fielding has agreed to keep it just between us."

Fielding glowered at Chase but remained silent. The surgeon didn't notice; his focus was on Joey, trying to read the kid's body language, which was difficult with his constant movement. The teen seemed to be squirming even more frenetically in his chair than when they began.

Joey sighed, his eyes jutting back and forth between Chase and Fielding before coming to rest on Chase. "No, Kirk doesn't do drugs. He tried weed but didn't like it. He always says he wants to be in control of his thinking, not some stupid chemical." Joey's eyes shifted back to Fielding and he added quickly, "I don't do drugs either. Kirk doesn't hang with those who do."

"Has Kirk had headaches before like the one he had last night?" Foreman asked, leaning forward in his seat.

"Not that I know about," Joey said, shaking his head. "Look, is Kirk, like, gonna be okay? He's not gonna die, is he?"

"We don't know for certain, Joey," Chase told him honestly. "That's why we're here talking with you. We're hoping that you hold some information that will help us figure out what is wrong with Kirk so we can provide him with the proper treatment. We need you to tell us anything that you may know that could help us."

"Kirk's parents told us that he had pneumonia about a year ago," Foreman interjected. "Do you know if he was still having problems from that? Maybe he complained of his chest hurting sometimes, or he had difficulty breathing?"

Joey shook his head. "No, he was over it a long time ago. Kirk didn't say anything about it coming back or having problems with his breathing. Then again, Kirk isn't a wuss, okay? He doesn't whine a lot about stuff, so if he was sick, he wouldn't say anything to me or anyone else about it."

"But he complained about his headache to you," Foreman pointed out. "Are you saying that isn't something Kirk would normally do?"

The teen thought about that for a moment before answering. "I guess that _is_ weird," he agreed. He doesn't usually complain."

Chase jotted this down in his notepad and then asked Joey, "Have you noticed Kirk doing anything else lately that he doesn't normally do, or saying things he doesn't normally say?"

Joey began to shake his head no and then stopped and looked up at Chase, his eyes widening a bit. He began to nod his head. "Yeah, yeah. Kirk has always been a straight arrow, you know? No drugs, no cigarettes, no booze and no cursing. But lately he's been swearing a lot. I mean, _really_ foul. He never swore but the last few weeks he's been swearing up a storm, worse than me and my mom is always kicking my ass—I mean, my butt—for my language.

"Oh, oh! He's been really moody too. He's been blowing up and yelling at me and others for the dumbest reasons. That's not Kirk. He's always the nicest guy. Just the other day we were at our lockers and a freshman accidently bumped into him. It was _nothing_. Normally Kirk would kinda joke about it, tell the kid to learn how to walk, and let it go but not this time. This time he grabbed the kid's shirt and pulled him over and got in the kid's face, screaming and swearing at him. Then he shoved this little dude into a locker—I mean _hard_—and told him that 'the next time he'll use his f-----g face to mop the floor'. That's just not Kirk. I mean, what's with _that_?"

Chase and Foreman looked at each other at the same time, obviously thinking the same thing. Headaches bad enough to make a non-complainer complain coupled with personality change did not add up to anything good.

"I haven't heard anything about this or any other problems from Kirk's teachers," Fielding interjected almost defensively.

"He doesn't swear at the teachers," Joey responded, "and there were none around when he scared that kid. It was after school, when everybody was getting ready to head home."

Foreman looked back to Joey. "Do you know if he's been having any personal problems at home, or maybe with a girl, that could explain his moodiness?"

"I don't think so," Joey answered, shrugging, wiggling. "Kirk's parents are never home and when they are they're 'entertaining' his dad's business contacts and kick him and his sisters out of the house for that. But that's nothing new. He's got a girlfriend—her name's Sharly Haszon-- and they used to be stuck together at the hip, if you know what I mean, but lately I haven't seen them around each other a lot. Kirk didn't tell me if they broke up."

_'Stuck together at the hip'_—Chase was grateful for the segue Joey provided him. "Joey, do you know if Kirk and –Sharly, was it?—have had sex?"

"Is that a necessary question to ask him?" Fielding cut in suddenly. "I think it's inappropriate."

"Sexually-transmitted infections don't care about propriety, Mr. Fielding," Chase told the principal tersely. "Not talking about them doesn't make them go away. Teenagers have sex. It's a fact whether you approve of it or not." He turned back to Joey and spoke more calmly. "Did Kirk ever tell you if he had ever had sex with Sharly or with anyone else, for that matter?"

Joey hesitated, looking to Fielding, to the clock on the far wall and back to Chase and Foreman.

"It's important that we know if he has," Foreman encouraged the teen. "We suspect that Kirk has an infection but we don't know what kind. Certain STI's can cause some of the symptoms you just described."

With a huge sigh, Joey nodded his head. He eyed the doctors with suspicion now. "We were all bragging in the locker room after Phys-ed one time. Most of what's said there is bullshit, well, you guys know, but Kirk doesn't say anything unless it's true. He's just like that—straight arrow, remember?"

Chase nodded, trying to encourage Joey to go on while forcing himself to show patience. Joey's constant movement was driving him to distraction. "Go on," the surgeon told him.

"Well, some of the guys were bugging him about being a virgin or gay because Kirk doesn't chase the honeys like a lot of guys do. I've seen him talking to the girls but he's just not all that obvious about it." Joey paused for breath. "He's not gay, that's for sure. Anyway, it got pretty bad to the point where Kirk lost his temper and told them that he wasn't a virgin and that he'd done it a number of times but he wasn't the kind of loser who had to broadcast it everywhere he goes. When pressured he named off Sharly and a couple other names of chicks I don't even know. I can't even remember what their names were now."

"Do you think he was telling the truth?" Foreman inquired.

Joey nodded confidently and answered. "Yeah, sure. Why not? I believe him. But he's never said anything to me about any diseases being passed around. We're tight, but we're not _tha_t tight."

Chase exchanged looks with Foreman again and then said to Fielding, "I think we're going to have to talk with Sharly, as soon as possible. If Kirk does turn out to have an STI, she and her family need to know right away."

Fielding nodded somberly and rose from his desk. "I'll try to get a hold of her parents," he said.

"Why don't you just ask her when she visits Kirk?" Joey told them. All three men looked at him. "I heard her telling one of her friends that her parents were going to take her up to the hospital tonight to visit him."

Chase nodded. It was a good idea and would save the hassle of locating the parents, getting their consent, sending for Sharly and waiting for her to arrive. "Good idea," he said. He wasn't in the mood to hang around all day waiting for people.

Foreman wasn't as convinced. "The sooner we speak to her, the better. I say we talk to her right now."

Chase rolled his eyes in exasperation but didn't argue. Mr. Fielding took that as his cue to leave and begin the process of contacting Sharly's parents for permission. Chase gave Foreman a glare that said he wasn't impressed but Foreman ignored him.

"Hey," Joey spoke up anxiously. He looked back and forth from the doctors to the door. "Can I get out of here? Am I done?"

"Yeah," Chase told him with a nod. He handed the kid a business card from his wallet as Joey jumped to his feet. "If you think of anything else we should know, call that number."

"Sure," Joey said, cramming the card into his pocket without looking at it. "Later." He rocketed out of the room with more energy than any one person had the right to possess.

"Can you say 'ADHD'?" Foreman commented with a shake of his head. Chase had to smile at that one.

It took less time than the surgeon had anticipated contacting the parents and summoning Sharly to Fielding's office. She arrived slightly out of breath wearing gym shorts and a tank top, her dirty-blonde hair pulled up into a pony-tail. She had just been in Phys-Ed. She had that pretty, 'girl-next-door' look to her. After introductions everyone settled in for more questioning.

"Mr. Fielding told you why we want to speak with you, didn't he?" Foreman clarified with her. Sharly nodded her head, appearing a little anxious but positively motionless compared to Joey.

"Yes," she replied. "You want to ask me about Kirk."

Both doctors nodded but before either one could speak she asked, "How is he doing? Is he okay?"

"He's stable," was all Foreman told her before asking, "How long have you and Kirk been dating, Sharly?"

She shrugged and smiled. "About three months. He broke up with the girl he was seeing before me over the summer. Why?"

"We were wondering if you know if Kirk has been sick recently or has complained about headaches or weakness," Chase explained, flashing his most charming smile at her in hopes of gaining her trust. "Also, have you seen any personality changes in him lately?"

"He's had a bad headache for a while," she offered. "A _bad_ one. That's about it. Personality changes? He's been kind of depressed, I guess. You know, grouchy, keeping to himself. We haven't really seen a lot of each other over the past week or so." Her face betrayed her disappointment with that. "I heard he almost got into a fight last Friday, but I don't know a whole lot about that. Why? Do you think there's something wrong with his brain or something?"

_She's sharp,_ Chase thought to himself before replying, "We're not sure exactly. We don't want to pry into your private life, Sharly, but we do have a few intimate questions we have to ask, okay?"

Sharly met Chase's gaze and held it, as if she was trying to read him to know exactly what it was he was thinking.

"You want to know if Kirk and I have done it or not, right?" She asked him bluntly. "Because you think he has a venereal disease, right?"

Chase nodded a little sheepishly. "We're not sure he has, but we can't rule it out, either. We have no interest in telling anyone else unless it turns out that your health might be in danger. The more honest you are the better for the both of you."

Sharly glanced over at Fielding, who sat silently, looking very uncomfortable and staring at the floor. She set her jaw and looked back at Chase, cocking her head to the side slightly. After a few moments of contemplation, she answered.

"Yes," she said clearly, her gaze unwavering. "We've had oral sex once and intercourse three times. And the only time we didn't use a condom was when we had oral. Neither of us had one and it just happened unexpectedly. We figured it wasn't as dangerous without protection if it was oral."

Chase was impressed with how frank and confident she appeared, even if she _wasn't _well informed. She had poise unusual in someone as young as she.

"Not necessarily," Foreman spoke up, doing his best to be sensitive but honest. Sensitivity wasn't his strong suit. "You can transmit infections that way, especially if one of you has oral cuts or sores like canker sores or cold sores. Have either of you experienced any of those things before, during or after you had sex?"

"I sometimes get cold sores," Sharly answered. "I don't remember if either one of us had any when we were together. Look, I know Kirk—if he thought he had something, he'd tell me. I'm sure of that. And I haven't had any problems, either."

"I'm not so certain he _would_ tell you," Chase opined, "even if he knew for certain he was infected with an STI. The stigma that's associated with one is enough to keep some people from talking about it to anyone, especially at Kirk's age. Unfortunately a person can go for quite some time with an STI and not show a single symptom but still be infectious. That's why it's essential to practice safe sex every time there is _any_ risk possible."

A look of fear appeared in Sharly's eyes as it dawned on her just how vulnerable a position she had placed herself in. She shook her head slightly. "You mean I could have contracted something like HIV or Hepatitis C?" Her voice was very small.

"We don't know for certain that Kirk has an STI," Foreman told her quickly. "Just that it's a possibility, especially if he was sexually active with someone before he started dating you. We'd like you and your parents to come by the hospital as soon as possible so we can test you for _any_ kind of infection, including STIs."

"I can't tell them about this! My parents will kill me if they find out that Kirk and I have had sex!" Sharly objected, now looking positively horrified.

"I don't know your parents, Sharly," Foreman said calmly, trying to reassure the girl, "but if they are anything like most parents I've met, they may be disappointed when they find out but they'll want the best for you and will be more concerned about making certain you're healthy than planning your demise."

The girl didn't look convinced of that but didn't raise an objection, either. Hesitantly she nodded. "Okay. I guess I _should_ be tested. How do I tell them?"

"We'll contact them about it," Chase assured her. "You don't need to be concerned about that."

Sharly appeared to relax a little upon hearing that. "Is it okay if we come in after school today?"

"We'll arrange that with your parents and Mr. Fielding," Foreman told her, glancing over at Principal whom nodded in agreement. "We'd like to see you come in right away if possible."

Sharly returned to her classes shortly after that; after contacting her parents from the Principal's office, Chase and Foreman headed quickly for the car. They discussed what they had learned and how they would present the information to House.

It was silent for several minutes before Foreman spoke up, apparently unable to resist the urge to break the deafening silence.

"What are you thinking about?"

Chase was doing his best _not_ to think about anything because if he did his mind would inevitably come back to his last conversation with Allison before she left, or to the image of Dibala, the man he had murdered, as the African dictator began to choke on his own blood; it bubbled and flowed out of his mouth like a fountain all over him, the bed, and the floor. Those memories had taken over his dreams at night and they threatened to take over his waking hours as well. Going home was also out of the question. He didn't think he'd ever find any peace in that place again.

"I'm thinking," Chase said without looking at Foreman, "that you need to work on reconciling with Thirteen so you will stop worrying about my life and focus on your own."

"I don't think there's a chance of that happening," Foreman replied somberly. "Too much time has passed. Remy doesn't want to talk even after we both have had enough time to cool down. If she's not ready now, she never will be. I'd be happy if we could simply work together civilly."

"What would make you _ecstatic_?" Chase asked him. They drove past a woman with flowing blonde hair and he couldn't help but look twice to make certain it wasn't Allison. He wondered if he wasn't losing his mind after all. How long would it take him to stop doing that? When would he be able to go more than five minutes at a time without feeling the ache of longing for her? Rationally he knew that the pain would fade over time and if he held it together long enough everything would be alright, but in silences, darkness and empty moments he was easily persuaded that his world was spiraling into a deep chasm which ended only when life did. Those latter states of being were much more frequent and powerful than the moments of sanity. He hadn't been able to sleep in weeks, which only added to the blur between reality and delusion.

"To go back to last spring," Foreman answered absently, "before House lost his mind and threw everybody else's lives into upheaval."

Chase forced his mind back to his conversation with Foreman.

"Yes," the surgeon mused bitterly. "House would have had to continue on his path of drug-induced self-destruction until his mind twisted into permanent schizophrenic knots but until that happened we wouldn't have had to take personal responsibility for our relationships and careers; we'd still be able to blame every stupid decision we make on him. That wouldn't have been too much to ask, would it?"

When Foreman failed to respond, Chase knew he had made his point. House was guilty of a great deal of mayhem but it was more than unfair to blame him for Foreman's behavior towards Thirteen while the neurologist was in charge of the department and House hadn't held a gun to the surgeon's head to force him to falsify the test results and administer the wrong treatment that killed Dibala. In fact, Chase had to admit that he admired House for actually taking his rehabilitation seriously this time and continuing with psychotherapy to rebuild his life. It took courage and time to face one's demons head on and fight to overcome them. Chase secretly wondered if he had that kind of courage.

At the hospital, Foreman and Chase emerged from the car but when Foreman began to walk towards the building, Chase hung behind.

"Aren't you coming?" Foreman asked when he noticed Chase wasn't following.

"No," Chase told him in a 'matter-of-fact' manner. "My head is just not in the right place to be here today. I'm going to take off. Cover for me with House, would you?"

"Will you be in tomorrow," Foreman demanded, "or do I tell him you're taking a few days to sort things out?"

"Just tell him I'll be in tomorrow morning," Chase said and then headed for his own car, which he had parked four stalls away from Foreman's.

"_On time_," Foreman reminded him before walking away.

"Whatever," Chase muttered under his breath, unlocking his car and climbing inside.

Avoiding going home and facing the ugly loneliness, Chase took a familiar detour, driving just around the block to a popular bar and grill. It was time to have lunch, and he might actually eat something, too.


	5. Chapter 5

**Reconciliations: A House M.D. Story**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its concept, current story line and characters past and current are the property of David Shore and the Fox Television Network, all rights reserved.

A/N: Thanks again to those of you who are kind enough to read this story and offer reviews! I do take suggestions very seriously in what I write. One thing I find challenging is getting the feel of the season 6 Gregory House after five seasons of Vicodin addiction influencing his character on the show. I feel like it's a balancing act between his new found sobriety and his true personality with or without the drugs. Let me know what you think!

Songs which have been part of the inspiration for this chapter are: "Must Have Done Something Right." By Reliant K, "Your Guardian Angel."By The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus and "Cold-Hearted." By Paula Abdul.

**Chapter Five**

Chloe agreed to follow protocol and wear a mask and gloves when going in with Kirk's parents to visit him and perform the anointing. Dr. Hadley had informed her that they suspected an infection, possibly a communicable one, and had given her two lists: The first was a list of precautions to take to prevent the spread of infection between Kirk and her. The second list was comprised of symptoms to look for if the chaplain should come down ill after her contact with Kirk. The last thing Chloe wanted to do was pass something on to the teen, whose immune system may have been weakened or contract an infection herself which she would then carry to the many other people she came into contact with each day, including her own daughter. Such precautions were common and were nothing with which she wasn't already familiar. Kirk's nurse had told her that Kirk was in a lucid phase which was encouraging. At least he would be aware of his parents' and her presence and what was being done on his behalf.

As soon as the three adults entered the room, Kirk, who appeared to be sleeping, opened his eyes to see who it was coming in. Despite the grimace that had established residency on his face from the unending pain he felt, the teen tried to smile. His parents approached his bedside first while Chloe hung back near the door and allowed them a few moments to visit with their son.

Mary Gartner, also with her hands gloved and face masked began to stroke Kirk's head Almost mechanically. Francis Gartner stood next to her impassively, silent.

"How are you feeling, Kirk?" his mother asked him softly. "Doing okay?"

Chloe could see her eyeing the I.V. line coming out of Kirk's left wrist and leading to a regulator on the pole that electronically controlled the drip rates of the two bags of fluid hanging above. Her eyes held a pained look that Chloe could empathize with; no mother who loved her child could stand the idea of him being sick and in pain but would, in fact, almost bear that pain in her own body as well. It had been that way for Chloe when Sara, at age five, had her appendix rupture and needed emergency surgery to save her life. It was still difficult for Chloe to remember the suffering Sara had gone through.

Kirk nodded but stopped with only one bob of his head when doing so seemed to cause him enough pain that he groaned. Chloe frowned, something about that not sitting well with her, though she wasn't certain why.

"Your neck hurts?" Mary asked him, glancing towards her husband whom said nothing.

"A little," Kirk answered, obviously downplaying just how much. "It's mostly my head."

"The nurse said that they're giving you medicine for that," his mother tried to assure him, but the expression on her face did nothing to evoke faith in what she said. "Maybe we can ask them to supplement it with some of the herbal preparations I brought with me."

"Anything," Kirk moaned softly.

Francis Gartner remained silent, in spite of the fact that his son was looking up at him now. His impassivity seemed odd to the chaplain but Chloe knew that people dealt with fear and stress in a variety of different ways and Kirk's father may be one who dealt with it by withdrawing into himself.

Kirk then looked in her direction, blinking; his eyes were unable to focus. "Who's that?"

Mary looked in Chloe's direction and smiled. "That's Chloe, Kirk. She's a hospital chaplain we asked to come and pray over you."

That was Chloe's cue. She moved up and stood on the other side of the bed so Kirk might be able to see her better. "Hello, Kirk," Chloe addressed him. "Is it alright if I anoint you with a little bit of olive oil and pray with your parents for your healing?"

Kirk stared at her blankly for a while, and Chloe wondered if he had heard her. She was about to say it again a little louder when he nodded his consent.

"I need that," he told her weakly.

Chloe smiled at him, but it couldn't be seen behind her mask. Around one of her wrists Chloe wore a small satchel that hung from a short, gold cord. From the satchel she pulled out a tiny transparent jar that held the anointing oil. She held it where Kirk could see it as she opened the lid and dabbed a little bit of the oil on her gloved index finger. She then leaned closer to Kirk and closed her eyes in prayer. His parents followed suit, but Kirk's eyes remained open, watching the proceedings with curiosity.

"Dear Lord Jesus," Chloe prayed softly. "We praise you for being the Great Physician who heals the injured and the sick in all ways according to your love for us and your great will. We come before you now to ask that you would touch Kirk and heal him of this illness and heal not only his body but also his mind and spirit." Chloe touched his forehead gently, tracing the sign of the cross with the oil, "We ask this in the Name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, Amen."

She continued to pray in that manner as she moved around his bed and anointed his hands and his feet as well. Each time she finished with an 'amen' Mary Gartner joined her but as before Kirk's father remained quiet, unmoving. Once Chloe was finished with the anointing she put the bottle of oil away in its satchel and then asked Kirk if there was anything else she could do for him while she was still there.

Kirk shook his head, experiencing pain again. "You could straighten my pillow…it's hurting my neck," he said.

Chloe chuckled softly, as did his mother.

"Absolutely," Chloe told him, and gently placed a hand under his head to lift it as she adjusted the pillow with the other. As she lifted his head he winced in pain again and instinctively pulled it away from her, giving her a clear view of the back of his neck. Just above the collar of the hospital gown he wore there was a rash. Her eyes widened as she had an epiphany of sorts. Chloe realized why his sore neck had bothered her. She slid the pillow into place and then looked to Kirk's parents, trying not to show her concern.

"Kirk, if you will excuse me," she said to him softly and calmly. Behind her mask she was no longer smiling, "I have to be going. You can have some time alone with your Mom and Dad, okay?"

"Sure," he murmured, the neck pain having left him. He looked like he was about to fall asleep at any moment.

"Thank you very much," Mary told the chaplain in appreciation and Francis nodded in agreement.

"You're very welcome," Chloe told them, and then made her way quickly for the door. She hesitated when she noticed that standing on the other side of the glass was Dr. House, watching the proceedings curiously. She had no idea how long he had been standing there. Although she was surprised to see him, it was serendipitous because it meant she wouldn't have to bother having a doctor paged. She stepped out of the room and approached him.

House had the hint of a smile tugging at his lips but wouldn't allow it to go any further than that. He looked down at her with those amazing eyes that were gleaming with amusement and something else, but Chloe couldn't be certain what. His gaze caused her breath to catch and she hoped he hadn't noticed.

"Finished basting?" House said to her sarcastically. "Is he ready to go into the oven or the refrigerator?"

Pulling her mask down off of her face, Chloe couldn't help but smile with amusement. She appreciated his wit even if it _was_ at God's and her expense. "Somehow, I picture Heaven as being delightfully temperate, not cold," she replied, "but you are in a better position than I am to say whether he's going to either place soon."

"I wish I was in a better position than you think," House told her soberly, the smile in his eyes disappearing. "We're still waiting on tests that may make things clearer."

Chloe read his face and body language. He was concerned, not indifferent. Already that morning several hospital staff members had taken upon themselves the responsibility of warning her about House, and Kirk's nurse had told her that he was a cold man who cared more about solving the puzzle of an illness than the wellbeing of the patient who suffered from it. Chloe tried not to gossip or listen when others did; she preferred to form her own opinions about people without her perspective being tainted by the slander of others. Gossip was nearly always malicious and inaccurate. However, she knew that once a person heard something about another person, it could never be unheard.

"About that," Chloe said. "I may have an idea, if you're willing to entertain one from a Ph.D. instead of an M.D.?"

House looked at her suspiciously and she wasn't certain whether or not he was merely toying with her or serious when he replied, "What's your idea, _Doctor_?"

She took a deep breath. "I noticed a spotty, purplish rash under the skin along his spine just above the collar of his gown. Has he had that all along? A couple of years ago there was something going around the students at my daughter's school. Parents were told to look for symptoms like fever, headaches, a stiff, sore neck and a spotty purple rash because it was suspected that there may have been an outbreak of infectious meningitis. Could this also be--?"

Chloe was unable to finish her question because upon her mentioning meningitis, House's eyes lit up and he brushed past her suddenly, walking into Kirk's room. She pulled her mask back up and followed him. House said nothing in greeting to the parents, limping up to the head of Kirk's bed and lifting the teen's head to look at the back of his neck. Kirk cried out in pain at the sudden movement, but House didn't seem to notice; Chloe could almost see his mind sorting through the data he kept stored there. The doctor stared at Kirk's neck for only a moment and then looked at Chloe. The expression on his face was confirmation that she had been right.

"Looking for a moonlighting job, Dr. LaSalle?" House asked her sardonically. He nodded, appearing impressed. "Good read," he told her soberly.

Chloe would have felt satisfied with herself if the news hadn't been as grim as it was. She nodded without pleasure then looked over at Kirk. He was gone again, his eyelids closed.

Francis Gartner broke his silence, looking back and forth between Chloe and House. "What's going on?" He glared at House. "Who are _you_?"

"This is Dr. House," Chloe spoke up, confused. How was it that Kirk's parents had no idea who their son's doctor was? It only occurred to her later that they may have only been familiar with the diagnostician's Fellows and that this was the first contact the Gartners had had with the man in charge of their son's case. She had been told that House kept his contact with his patients to a minimum but no one was certain exactly why.

House brusquely bypassed introductions. "Thanks to Dr. LaSalle's keen observation of a tell-tale rash on his neck, I believe your son has meningitis, although I'm not certain which kind yet. Do you know anyone whom Kirk may have had contact with who has been diagnosed with meningitis?"

"N-no," Mary Gartner answered uncertainly, looking at her husband for any objection and not receiving any. "We don't. What's meningitis? Is it serious?"

"Not if you don't mind funerals," House quipped unfeelingly. Chloe was taken aback at how insensitive the remark was. Kirk's mother had a look of terror in her eyes and his father's eyes flared. What kind of bedside manner was that?

"That's not funny," Kirk's father told House angrily, voicing Chloe's thought exactly.

"No," House agreed grimly, glaring at the Gartner's. "It's not. Think hard. How is it that you failed to see signs that something was wrong with your own son before he collapsed?" His voice was hard, accusatory. "The membranes that envelop his brain and spinal cord are infected and it's causing swelling that is increasing the pressure inside his skull which will kill him if we don't determine exactly what is causing the infection and treat for it immediately. You should have noticed that he was coming down with something if you were paying attention, but you obviously weren't. Let me guess: Daddy was too busy schmoozing with business contacts and doing a rotten job running the hospital board and mommy was too preoccupied with her shopping, her charity work and her Bridge club to pay any attention to the fact that their boy was falling gravely ill. Isn't that the way it went?"

Even though House's thoughts mimicked her own upon first meeting the Gartners, Chloe knew that his method of confronting what he obviously saw as neglect was not only tactless but would not result in benefitting Kirk or him as a result. She felt she had to do something quickly to prevent a pointless and nasty confrontation.

She approached House so that she was close enough to speak to him quietly. She stood between the doctor and the Gartners.

"Dr. House," she said, whispering, "At this point wouldn't it be more productive to reserve your indignation for later and focus your attention on using what you now know to treat Kirk? I, too, am angered by their apparent disregard for his well-being but to anger the Gartners may not bode well for _you_."

House frowned at her in frustration. He told her loudly, "I don't give a damn whether I anger them or not!"

Chloe could both see and hear his anger and indignation. How could anyone accuse this man of not caring about his patients? If he really was indifferent, she decided, he would simply do his job and keep his opinions to himself. Chloe wondered if House's real problem was that he had difficulty dealing with his emotions in any other way than through anger or trying to repress them and appearing to be indifferent—call it a lack of impulse control and emotional maturity.

"How dare you imply that my wife and I don't parent our children?" Francis Gartner demanded angrily.

Chloe cringed, deciding to try a different approach with House.

"Shh!" She still faced the doctor and placed a finger to her lips. "I know you don't care and frankly why should you? But getting into a heated argument over it now is counterproductive! Treat Kirk now and then express your opinion later when you are calmer and the Gartners owe you for saving their son's life. Don't allow them to get under your skin."

Before House could reply she turned to face the Gartners, raising her voice. "Dr. House was not implying anything. He was making an inference from what he has observed so far. Now you can take what he said as an attack and become offended or you can be glad that your son's doctor is concerned about him and perhaps consider whether or not there may be something to what he has said and use it to become better parents. We parents aren't perfect and we make mistakes. Sometimes God uses people and incidents to catch our attention and set us back in the right direction, _Oui_?"

There was an angry exchange of glares between the Gartners and House, but neither side fired the next shot. Chloe sighed with relief.

House spoke broke the silence, addressing both parents, "You both will have to be examined and screened for infection, although I think it's a pretty safe bet that you won't come down with meningitis."

"Why is that?" Mary Gartner asked, frowning with angry eyes.

"Children and young adults under thirty are the most susceptible to it," the diagnostician told them and then added sarcastically, "and you'd actually have to have close contact with your kid, which you obviously don't."

Chloe rolled her eyes at House's taunt. Not willing to give him a chance to shoot off his mouth again, she firmly grasped his forearm and half-dragged him out of the room. House put up some resistance but Chloe was surprisingly strong. Once out of earshot she released him. He glowered angrily down at her.

"I don't need you to protect me from myself!" he complained angrily.

Chloe yanked off her mask in frustration, met his gaze, and held it. "Apparently you did in there!" she told him firmly. He looked genuinely perplexed at that, like a little boy who had been reprimanded by his teacher but had no idea what he had done wrong.

Dropping the volume of her voice she continued, "You do not seem to know the difference between assertiveness and aggression. Your sarcasm is lost on them, Doctor, and trying to get through to them is a waste of your time and energy. Your anger is valid and is what I call a 'righteous' anger. Such anger is a form of energy that is very powerful when used in the right way and at the proper time. Use your anger energy _assertively_, not rashly and destructively. Insults and accusations, whether or not they are based on truth, will only breed defensiveness and no one will hear the message you are trying to covey. That is all I was trying to tell you! I have no interest in becoming your protector, following you around everywhere to prevent you from making an ass of yourself!" She took a deep breath and exhaled. "After all, there are only twenty-four hours in a day and I'd like to spend a few of them on other pursuits." At that she smiled disarmingly.

House remained silent, staring at her for a few moments. He appeared to be appraising her again, only this time she detected only curiosity. His mind was at work again and it seemed to Chloe that he was trying to get inside her head, seeking out her thought processes and motivations. She imagined him trying to discern whether or not she was the same person on the inside as she projected on the outside. He likely wondered whether he could trust her or not. As unnerving as it was, Chloe couldn't bring herself to look away from him. As much as he was trying to figure her out she was trying to do the same with him.

"Doctor," he said at last, "what are you doing for lunch?" His expression was intense, unreadable and his gaze seemed to bore right into her.

Surprised, she recoiled slightly. "_E-Everybody_ calls me Chloe—not doctor--and I-I was just going to have a sandwich in my office. Why do you ask, Dr. House?"

"Call me Greg," he told her; a smile threatened to take over his mouth. "_Nobody_ around here calls me that. Have lunch with me." His demeanor had undergone a quick transformation from bold and sarcastic to quiet and gentle.

It wasn't so much a request as it was a command, yet Chloe didn't see it as an attempt to control her. Indeed, it made her feel, strangely enough, that _she _was the one in control. She saw herself being drawn to him like the proverbial moth to a flame. A small voice in her head told her to be careful and decline, but Chloe did the unusual and ignored it.

"Alright," she agreed and smiled when she saw _his_ smile broaden. He had a _great_ smile but she suspected that he didn't display it very often. She checked her watch: It was eleven-fifty-seven A.M. "My break is from twelve-thirty to one-thirty," Chloe told him.

"So is mine," he told her, his crystal-blue eyes smiling. "What a _coincidence_! I know a good place not far from the hospital, just a couple of minutes to walk. Meet me in the lobby?"

Chloe nodded slowly. "Okay, Greg. I'll see you then."

He nodded and smiled almost shyly in reaction. His eyes broke contact with hers; he and his cane limped away towards the Nurse's station. She watched him for a moment longer and then walked slowly in the direction of the elevator. _What just happened_? She marveled. Why did she feel captivated whenever she looked at Greg House? Sure, he was very attractive but Chloe had known other attractive men and wasn't affected by them to the degree she was to him. When he looked at her and smiled, she felt like she was going to melt into his arms. She hadn't felt like that since…well, actually, Chloe couldn't recall a time when she felt the way she did just then; not even Sara's father had drawn her the way this man did.

The little voice was back, telling her again to be careful, that she was playing with fire and either or both House and she could get burned. _He's not moving in the same direction, Chloe_, it reminded her.

Chloe suspected that she was not being as wise as she should, but she didn't really care. Being wise had not ended the loneliness she felt that even Sara's presence couldn't ease. She was tired of having no one to lean on once in a while, no one to share the thoughts and feelings she had that she couldn't share with her daughter, no one to indulge with her passion. Surely God didn't expect her to be alone for the rest of her life, did he?

Back in her small office next door to the hospital chapel, she put the satchel with the anointing oil away in a desk drawer, withdrawing her purse at the same time. She pulled a small mirror and a brush out of it and removed the clip that held her hair back from her face. She brushed it out and then clipped the tresses back into place. Chloe looked at her image for a moment. The face looking back looked different from the way it had looked earlier that morning as she dressed for work. Earlier it had looked anxious and tired and her deep brown eyes had been a little sad. Now the face was smiling and brighter and the eyes actually looked like they were alive. How could something that changed her in such a positive way so quickly be so bad?

The phone on her desk rang, and she stuffed the mirror and brush back into her purse before answering. "Chaplains' Office, Chloe LaSalle speaking. How may I help you?"

"Hello, Chloe," a somewhat familiar voice said from the speaker. "This is Dr. James Wilson. We ran into each other earlier?"

Chloe smiled, remembering. "Oh, yes. How are you James? Not permanently injured I hope."

"With a little physiotherapy I think I'll survive," he jokingly replied. "Actually, I'm calling to see if you would be available for lunch? We could become better acquainted and I could fill you in on who's who around here."

The chaplain shook her head in amazement. She had gone four years since Joseph without one nibble on the hook and now it seemed like she was trolling through a school of fish. Was there something in the water in Princeton that she hadn't found anywhere else? If so, Chloe mused, then she needed to isolate it and sell it to a waiting population of lonely singles—she could make a fortune that way.

"I'm sorry," she apologized. "I would like that, James, but I've already made plans for lunch today. Could I have a rain check for tomorrow, perhaps?"

"Oh," he responded, sounding a little disappointed. "Sure, absolutely, as long as you don't mind the hospital cafeteria. I have to stick close to the hospital for one of my patients tomorrow. What time works for you?"

"I've been taking my lunch break at twelve-thirty but there's a little flexibility with that," she replied. "Does that work for you?"

"Sounds great," Wilson told her. "I'll meet you in the cafeteria tomorrow, then."

"Alright," she agreed amenably. "I'll see you then if not before."

"Good!" he told her, "I'll talk to you then." Wilson hung up and so did she.

Chloe sat back in her chair. Two lunch dates in a row with two handsome men. If someone had told her earlier that morning that such a thing would occur, she wouldn't have believed it for a moment. Again she had that nagging feeling that she was treading in dangerous territory.

_C'est ridicule_! She told herself with a shake of the head. It was just lunch, not marriage! She was reading too much into it all. Chloe rose to her feet, retrieved her jacket from a hook near the door and put it on. Grabbing her purse she headed for the hospital lobby to meet House before she lost her nerve.

* * *

Lisa Cuddy stepped out of her office just off the hospital lobby and locked the door behind her. She wasn't certain if she was going to stay in the cafeteria to eat her lunch or buy something and take it back to her office. Usually it was their habit for Wilson and she to meet for lunch once a week on Thursdays but he had called her up earlier that morning saying that he had something come up and had to cancel. The Dean had to admit that she was disappointed; she and Wilson had been friends for a long time and she looked forward to her lunches with him. It was unusual for him to cancel on her unless he had an emergency with a patient to deal with, but then he always told her that was the case. This time he hadn't. She wondered if it had something to do with the fact that she was seeing Lucas instead of House. Wilson and House were best friends, and perhaps Wilson was angry at her for hurting House. Whatever the reason, Cuddy didn't know if she wanted to eat alone publically or hide in her office so no one knew that she had been stood up.

As she turned away from her door she could see House walking out of the elevator and making his way towards the main exit. Cuddy hated to admit it, but she found it almost a relief to see him, even if she had no intention of acknowledging him. Except for a couple of less than friendly exchanges, she hadn't seen or heard from him since returning from the medical conference with Lucas and Rachel. She recalled the hurt she had seen in House's eyes when he learned about her relationship with Lucas by accidentally running into him in her suite. She regretted not telling him sooner, and it bothered her that she had hurt him. That had never been her intention.

What House didn't know, nor Lucas for that matter, was just how close she had been to calling things off with Lucas when House held her in his arms and they danced the night before. He had been so incredibly, romantically silly showing up at the 1980's themed dance in a ridiculous 18thcentury courtier's outfit, powdered wig and all. It was a side of him that he rarely even acknowledged much less showed to others. He was usually very cautious about displaying any kind of emotion other than anger, and only allowed those who were very dear to him, people who he allowed himself to trust, to see his softer side. He had trusted her, and she had hurt him, badly, whether it was intentional or not. She suspected that House's hostility towards her since then was he protecting himself again by bringing up the draw-bridge he had lowered to let her inside the wall he kept between himself and the rest of the world. She wondered how long it would be before he allowed anyone admittance behind the wall again.

At first Cuddy thought that he was heading in her direction but she was mistaken. She watched as House limped past her without so much as a glance in her direction and headed towards the Information Desk. Waiting for him there was the new chaplain she had hired, whom Cuddy hadn't noticed until then. A very pretty Chloe LaSalle smiled warmly when she saw him, and House gave her a rare but very genuine whole-face smile in return. They said a couple of words to each other, out of Cuddy's earshot, and then House gently touched LaSalle's shoulder and guided her towards the door. When they got there, House reached for the door first and held it open for her before following after her. Cuddy watched as they walked away together, talking rather animatedly. LaSalle said something which made House laugh—he actually _laughed_!—before they disappeared from view.

Cuddy stood in stunned silence. She felt a burn begin to grow in her chest, down towards her stomach and up her esophagus, nearly choking her, before ending in her mouth; she tasted acid. House didn't look like he was nursing a wounded heart or holding a grudge. Cuddy thought he looked like a man who was interested in pursuing a very lovely woman that wasn't her.

_Well_, she thought, _so much for him hurting too badly_! Here she had just been worrying that she had dealt him an irreparable injury only to find out that instead of House suffering from a broken heart he was moving on as if he had never really cared for her at all. She had been a fool! This whole time he had been playing games with her, a great big joke to amuse himself by, and if she had actually chosen him, what would have happened then? Would he have slept with her a few times to get his jollies before humiliating her in front of the entire hospital by dumping her and having a big laugh with Wilson over how he had really duped her this time? Could Wilson be having pangs of guilt because he was in on the plan so he cancelled lunch with her because he couldn't face her? She couldn't believe how incredibly stupid she was! Unless….

A wicked smile filled with bitterness crossed Cuddy's lips. Could it be that what she had just witnessed was some kind of act or a devious scheme House had cooked up in order to make her jealous? Had he managed to convince LaSalle by hook or by crook to go along with a plan to make the Dean upset in hopes of capturing her heart from Lucas? It would be consistent with House's style of operating. Was LaSalle complicit, or was she also being deceived by the master conniver and had no idea that she was being used? While House was capable of a lot of things, Cuddy found it hard to believe that even he would be cruel enough to lead the chaplain on like that. At least, she hoped that House was above doing something as low as that. Cuddy didn't know LaSalle well, but from their conversations during the hiring process the woman seemed to be a very warm and charming person and she didn't want to see the chaplain get hurt.

The only other explanation was the possibility that there was no scheme and House's interactions with LaSalle were due to classic rebound. In that case, LaSalle would end up getting hurt when he discovered that his attraction for her was an illusion. Cuddy didn't want to see that happen, either.

Cuddy didn't know which scenario was the correct one but she knew sooner or later she would find out, and the easiest way to do that was to seek out Wilson, wherever he was, and squeeze it out of him. She didn't stop to wonder why it mattered to her what House did if she truly was set on moving forward with Lucas.


	6. Chapter 6

**Reconciliations: A House M.D. Story**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its concept, current story line and characters past and current are the property of David Shore and the Fox Television Network, all rights reserved.

A/N: Thanks for the comments! Keep them coming! This is one of my shorter chapters but I felt the events that occur in this chapter needed to stand apart from Chapter Seven which will be much longer. I'm trying to roll out new chapters more frequently right now because one of the chapters I have planned involves Christmas and I thought it would be nice to have it completed and posted before then!

Songs that helped inspire this chapter include: "21 Guns." By Green Day and "I Will Be Here for You." By Michael W. Smith.

**Chapter Six**

Foreman arrived at House's office only to find it empty and locked. Foreman frowned; House not being there was commonplace, but being locked was. He had been trying to get a hold of the diagnostician to tell him what he and Chase had learned from Joey and Sharly, only to end up frustrated. He tried to call his cell phone and office with no answer. Next he had House paged over the intrahospital intercom system and had his pager number called, both to no avail. It was apparent that wherever he was, House did not want to be found. How on earth it was that someone as unpredictable and irresponsible as House could just walk back in and have control of Diagnostics handed back to him on a silver platter, Foreman had no idea. The neurologist had to admit that House was brilliant, but brilliance alone was not good enough. There was also the matter of discipline to consider, and House was one of the most undisciplined people Foreman had ever known.

He was about to leave when he ran into Thirteen, file folder in hand, on her way to see House as well. They looked at each other with discomfort. Foreman couldn't get over how beautiful she looked.

"Uh, hi," Thirteen said, breaking the silence. "House in?"

Foreman shook his head no. "I can't locate him anywhere. I was going to tell him what Chase and I learned from Kirk's friends."

She nodded, avoiding his eyes, "I have the screening results. Kirk tested positive for the presence of both Herpes one _and_ two in his cerebrospinal fluid sample from the LP we performed so our presumptive treatment with Acyclovir was a good decision. I think House beat us to a diagnosis, however."

"You think?" Foreman echoed, frowning in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"I just checked with Kirk's nurse; she told me that House has diagnosed him with viral meningitis and upped the Acyclovir."

"I wonder what he picked up that we didn't," Foreman mused, "Where's Taub?"

"He had some personal stuff to take care of," Thirteen answered simply. "Where's Chase?"

"Same thing," he replied. There was an uncomfortable moment of silence.

"So," Thirteen said first to break the silence, "What did you learn from Kirk's friends?"

Foreman sighed tiredly, "His best friend mentioned that Kirk's been headachy for a while now and he's shown some personality changes, especially an increase in aggression. He also said that Kirk is sexually active and we confirmed that with his current girlfriend as well as learning that they didn't always use protection. She's coming in after school with her parents to be screened. It's too bad he tested positive for an STI."

"It could be worse," Thirteen commented optimistically. "It could have been HIV."

Foreman nodded. "Yeah...I just hate to see it happen to someone so young."

"Disease can't tell time--." She stopped mid-sentence as her arm spasmed snake-like and she dropped the folder she was holding. The look of shock on her face was a visual reflection of what Foreman felt. Before he could react, Thirteen grabbed up the folder and loose papers and began to hurry away. Foreman pursued her.

"Remy," he said to her quietly upon catching up to her and gently grabbing her arm to stop her. She resisted initially and then relented. "How long has that been happening?"

She refused to look at him, "What are you talking about?"

Foreman frowned at her, telling her in his look that she wasn't fooling anyone. They both knew that the spasm was unusual and a clear symptom of her Huntington's disease. He was a neurologist; he knew what he saw.

"It hasn't happened before," she answered softly. "I'm sure it's nothing. Don't worry about it, I'm not." She tugged her arm free of his grip.

"You're kidding, right?" Foreman pressed. "Just because we're not romantically involved anymore doesn't mean I've stopped being concerned about you, which means that I'm worried. That was more than a little tremor or twitch. I think it would be wise to run an exam and a few tests to know better what we're dealing with here and get a handle on just how quickly the disease is progressing."

"_We're_ not dealing with anything!" she hissed and then stopped herself; taking a deep breath and exhaling loudly, she softened her tone. "This is no longer your business, Eric. I appreciate your concern but I can take care of myself. I have to go now."

She strode away again but this time Foreman didn't follow. He watched her until she rounded a corner and was out of sight. It was incredibly frustrating for him to watch her deteriorate and not be able or be allowed to do anything to help. He felt powerless and it drove him crazy. He didn't want her to have to take care of herself all on her own. He wanted to be there with her through it. If only she understood that!

* * *

She ran into the first ladies' room she came across and dodged into a stall to hide. Thirteen stood there, breathing heavily, her heart racing. She was relieved to know that the public washroom was empty and she could spend a few minutes alone to calm herself down. She rubbed her arm, feeling panicky.

_Of all the times it could have happened, it had to happen in front of Eric_, Thirteen thought to herself. She had lied to him when she told him that it had never happened before and she wasn't worried about it. She had been having a variety of muscle spasms, twitches and tremors since she returned from her trip to Thailand. However none of them had been quite as severe as what she had just experienced with her arm. She had been telling herself that it wasn't as bad as it seemed, that she was overreacting, that her imagination was getting the best of her, but the truth was none of those excuses were true and she knew it.

In fact, Thirteen wasn't only worried; she was very frightened. She was too young for that kind of symptom to appear yet, wasn't she? Certainly there were cases of early-onset Huntington's but they were rare. Her mother hadn't shown any symptoms until she was thirty-six and Thirteen wasn't even thirty yet. She was confused, unable to focus and reason when _she_ was the patient, and the look on Foreman's face hadn't helped alleviate her fear at all.

She knew that Foreman was right: she had to stop living in denial and see a doctor right away, but that doctor was not going to be him, or anyone else at PPTH for that matter. It was bad enough that news of her affliction had spread throughout the hospital grapevine. She didn't want any more of her personal life to become fodder for gossip. She hated the looks of pity she already received from some staffers. She didn't want to experience people's reactions if they knew that her disease was progressing. She would see a neurologist working out of St. Sebastian's hospital instead. Determining that she would snatch back control by facing her disease instead of denying it, she would go immediately to set up an appointment.

Feeling a little more in control, Thirteen left the washroom and joined the rest of the world again.

* * *

The moment Cuddy walked into the cafeteria she noticed Wilson sitting at a table alone, biting into an apple. He was reading what looked to be a newspaper, completely oblivious to his surroundings. Cuddy frowned. She had been right: Wilson had cancelled with her for apparently no good reason. He had to be avoiding her and she was going to find out why.

She went through the food line and ordered a bowl of soup, then grabbed a bowl of salad and a bottle of sparkling water out of a cooler. After paying she headed for Wilson's table. Cuddy knew she had to be careful in how she approached Wilson on the subject. If she immediately accused him of lying to her he would become defensive and would be less inclined to spill the beans, but if she let him think that he and House had gotten away with something, his hubris just might loosen his lips. Wilson was notoriously bad at keeping secrets if you knew how to weasel them out of him just right.

She stopped in front of him, casting a shadow across the page he was reading. Wilson looked up distractedly but the instant he saw that it was her, his eyes widened in surprise.

_Gotcha!_ Cuddy thought slyly.

"Lisa!" he said, and then threw on an innocent smile. "Hi."

"Hi," she replied, forcing a smile. "May I join you? Or are you expecting someone?"

He shook his head and gestured to the chair opposite him. "No. I mean, yes, have a seat. I'm not expecting anyone."

Cuddy took her seat. She wasn't ready yet to volunteer the fact that she had seen him leaving the hospital with Chloe LaSalle. "I'm kind of surprised to see you here," she told him pointedly. "When you said you had to cancel today I figured you had something come up that would occupy you over the lunch hour."

He looked at her guiltily. "Yeah, about that. I actually invited the new chaplain to lunch but as it turned out, she already had plans. Sorry."

"You mean Dr. LaSalle?" Cuddy asked. This was looking like it could be an interesting situation.

"Yes," Wilson admitted. "Chloe. I feel badly about deceiving you but she's, well, she's--."

"She's very pretty," Cuddy said, finishing his sentence for him.

"Right," he said and then added quickly, "But so are you! I'm just not interested in dating you. I mean, you have Lucas, and I…"His voice trailed off when he realized he was rambling. "I think I should just shut up, shouldn't I?"

Cuddy nodded and smiled to let him know that there were no hard feelings. She felt a little guilty for assuming he had been lying to her maliciously. He was simply being a typical man chasing some pretty tail. She wondered if he was aware of the fact that House was the one whom beat him to her. Should she be the one to tell him? It might cause an unpleasant incident if House knew that Wilson was interested and then went behind his back to get to LaSalle first. She didn't want to cause House any trouble, did she?

Of course she did, but not necessarily at Wilson's expense.

"I think it's great that you're interested in dating again," Cuddy told him approvingly. "It's a good sign that you're healing."

"You're right," Wilson agreed. "It was actually House who encouraged me to ask her."

Cuddy's eyes widened in surprise. This was looking more interesting all the time. It was obvious that Wilson had no idea that LaSalle was with House at that very moment.

"Are you sure you should be taking relationship advice from House?" the Dean of Medicine asked him quizzically.

"No," Wilson admitted with a chuckle but added, "but this time it felt right. I guess I just waited too long. The good news is I'm having lunch with her tomorrow instead."

_Uh huh_, Cuddy said to herself. House was definitely up to something and it didn't look good.

"Does House know that she said yes to tomorrow?" she asked.

Wilson shook his head. "I haven't said anything to him yet. Why?"

As much as Cuddy wanted to throw a monkey wrench into whatever it was House was scheming, she wasn't sure she wanted to be the one to tell Wilson that his best friend was pulling a fast one on him, although she did want to be a fly on the wall when he finally found out and confronted House about it. She decided to try to lead Wilson to the knowledge that she had without actually coming out and saying it.

"No reason," she told him, shrugging. "Wilson, I actually want to talk to you about House."

"If this has anything to do with you and him and your non-relationship--." Wilson began but she cut him off.

"No, no," Cuddy assured him quickly. "Nothing like that."

"Then what?" Wilson asked curiously.

Cuddy took her time to answer, choosing her words very carefully. "I've noticed a few things about House that concern me, little things that could mean nothing but I'm not sure. How has he been doing lately? Have you noticed anything unusual about his behavior?"

Wilson frowned slightly and Cuddy saw in his eyes that the oncologist was sifting through his memory in search of anything that might possibly qualify.

"No," Wilson told her cautiously. "He's been in a little less pain than usual this week, but nothing that seems significant. Actually, he seems to be doing pretty well. I would almost say that he's having about as good a week as he ever has. He was a little down after the convention, but he bounced back fairly well. Why? Have you noticed anything?"

Cuddy sighed. "He hasn't seemed to be acting a little more secretive than usual?" she pressed, avoiding his question. "A little more, well, _cheerful _than usual?"

Shaking his head Wilson said, "No, I don't think so. What do you mean by 'cheerful'?"

"I saw him talking with someone earlier today," Cuddy told him. "Someone I had never seen him associate with before. He was speaking to this person in a very animated fashion and he started laughing out of the blue. Also, he didn't appear to be feeling much pain as he walked. In fact, he was walking much more quickly than he usually does and without as much of a limp."

Wilson assimilated this information. The frown he wore intensified and a worried cast came over his eyes. "House was laughing? With a stranger? And he was walking with less pain? Are you certain about that?"

"He looked positively _elated_," Cuddy told him honestly, "and I haven't seen him laugh quite like that when he wasn't high as a kite." She realized what she was saying, and began to wonder if there _wasn't_ something to be concerned about after all. She recalled the phone calls she had received from a nurse and the hospital pharmacy earlier. At the time they seemed to be unconnected and innocuous. Now she genuinely wondered if they were.

"Are you," Wilson began to say and then lowered his voice, "Are you suggesting that House is using again?"

"I don't know," she answered. "Maybe? I received a call from a source earlier who said that she saw House loitering around Pharmacy earlier today. She commented that it looked like he was behaving the way he did before he went into rehab. And a little while after that, I received news from Unit 30 that the Pharmacy had shorted them forty Oxycontin tablets but Pharmacy denied it, saying that they dispensed the meds and had it documented so if the meds went missing it had to have occurred sometime after that. They checked the time that they were dispensed and it coincides with when House was said to have been in that area."

Wilson's countenance dropped. He lowered his head and was silent for a few moments. He shook his head in disbelief and looked back up at Cuddy in worry. "You think House stole the Oxycontin somewhere between Pharmacy and the unit?"

"Not at first," Cuddy admitted. She was beginning to worry now, as well. "But now, come to think about it…well, it would explain why he seemed to be on cloud nine as he left the hospital for lunch, and for the lack of discomfort he was showing. I hope I'm wrong, I really do."

"I haven't observed anything at home," Wilson told her, but there was clearly doubt in his voice. "Damn." He shook his head slowly. "_Damn! _ Well, until we know for certain, we don't confront him about it but we keep our eyes open for any more indications. I'll search through his things at home when he's not aware of it. If I find anything, I'll have to call Dr. Nolan at Mayfield. House signed a safety contract and if he breaks it, he'll be back in rehab. Keep me posted if you notice anything else unusual."

Cuddy nodded. She opened her mouth to speak but hesitated. Wilson caught this.

"What? Lisa, if you've noticed anything else, I need you to tell me!"

"Okay," she agreed somberly. "You're right. Wilson, you said that House was the one who encouraged you to ask Dr. LaSalle out for lunch today, right?"

"Right," Wilson acknowledged. "So what?"

"James," she said. Her use of his first name did not go unnoticed by the oncologist. "The person I saw House talking and laughing with was Dr. LaSalle. I watched them leave the hospital together before I came here."

Wilson looked at her in disbelief. "You have to be mistaken," he insisted weakly. "House doesn't like religion or anyone who does. Besides, he wouldn't do that knowing that I…." His voice trailed off.

"The House who was high on Vicodin would have," Cuddy reminded him gently. "House on Vicodin would do something like that without a single pang of conscience."

Wilson remained silent. After a few moments passed, he rose from the table without a word, took his tray and walked away. He dumped the garbage on the tray in a trash receptacle, set the tray where it belonged and walked, a little bit stoop-shouldered, out of the cafeteria. Cuddy watched him go, feeling just about as deflated as he appeared to be. She had set out to trick him out of some harmless information and ended up worrying them both.


	7. Chapter 7

**Reconciliations: A House M.D. Story**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its concept, current story line and characters past and current are the property of David Shore and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

The Odd Couple is the property of the ABC Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

A/N: This chapter is a little on the long side, so my apologies. However, I felt that I didn't want to cut content and couldn't think of a way of effectively dividing it between two chapters. All comments and reviews are appreciated!

"Rusted from the Rain." By Billy Talent, "You Are So Beautiful." By Joe Cocker, and "I've Got to See You Again." By Norah Jones.

**Chapter Seven**

"So how old _is_ Sara?" House asked as he opened the door to the restaurant and followed Chloe through, "Are we talking rug-rat, rope-jumper, pain in the ass, bigger pain in the ass or almost out the door?"

"She's thirteen," she replied with a smirk. "I'd say choice number three minus the pain. Really, she is a great kid. Very smart, witty, but she's also very reticent and doesn't like displays of affection. She's been through a lot over the past couple of years so she tends to be a little suspicious. But she's super!"

"Chloe, she's thirteen," House objected sarcastically. "She's probably got more sexual experience than you do."

"I'm not naïve," Chloe said, shaking her head, "but you're wrong about Sara. She's somewhat of a tom-boy and hasn't displayed interest in relationships with others, especially the opposite sex. I'm afraid some of the things she's witnessed as a child may be to blame for that."

Connoly's Bar and Grill was bustling with customers and the staff serving them; the lunch rush was still in full gear when House and Chloe arrived. They dripped a little from the steady drizzle falling outside but House barely noticed. House watched a water droplet threatening to fall from the end of Chloe's nose and thought it was adorable, although House refused to admit that he had just thought of a word as saccharine as 'adorable'. The droplet fell onto her upper lip, ran slowly down and ended up on her plump lower lip, sitting there for a fraction of a second until her lips met and the water was crushed between them.

_Lucky droplet_, House thought to himself as they waited to be seated. Since there was only the two of them they got a table quickly. A hostess who led them to it handed them menus and took their drink orders. Chloe ordered Peppermint tea and House, who wanted to order a beer but knew he had to return to work, ordered a Coke. Ah, responsibility, he thought…It sucked.

"So does that mean that there's a Mr. Dr. LaSalle?" House inquired, hoping that she would say no.

Chloe shrugged, studying her menu. "There used to be," she admitted. "When he started using me for a punching bag, I thought I deserved it for some of the mistakes I made in my misspent youth. I put up with it for nearly six years, two broken arms, a broken clavicle, six cracked ribs, one concussion and one miscarriage."

"Bastard," House growled angrily. "You were stupid to stay with him after the first time he hit you. I don't care what you did, you didn't deserve that."

She nodded slowly and set her menu down; Chloe met his eyes with hers; hers were misty and House had to fight the urge to touch her in comfort.

"I know," she said softly. "I know that, now. I was a chartered psychologist at the time—I should have known better. The only way I can explain it is…he had me convinced that no one would believe me if I told anyone. The psychology of a battered wife is complicated. I felt powerless to do anything about my situation. You must understand, my ex-husband, Joseph, was a church elder, local politician and successful business owner in a small Quebec community. He was a consummate actor, always pretending to be the perfect husband and father when there were other people around. I believed him and I lived in terror but I was able to act just about as well as he did so nobody, not even his own family, knew just how brutal he really was. When he threw me down the stairs into our basement and then left me there, unconscious, bleeding from my ears, one of my eyes and hemorrhaging from the miscarriage—_Mon Dieu_! He knew he was going to face prison. He packed up and ran as I laid there dying. It was Sara who found me when she got home from school and made the call for help. I can't imagine just how terrifying that must have been for her. She was only seven at the time." Chloe shook her head and sighed, saying no more.

House felt rage bubbling under the surface of his calm. He knew that it was a good thing he hadn't been around when Chloe's ex had done to her what he had; the diagnostician would have been very capable of killing him.

"Tell me he's serving life in some hell-hole, somewhere," he said to the chaplain in indignation.

Shaking her head Chloe replied, "He was never caught. The police believe he made his way to Brazil but they can't say for sure. At first, I was terrified knowing that Joseph was out there and that he could come back and finish the job he started. That was then…now I put my trust in God to protect Sara and me."

"Where was God in the first place?" House demanded, shaking his head in disbelief. "If he didn't protect you before, why do you continue to believe that He will protect you again? He _won't _because He doesn't exist. If a loving God did exist, he would have done something to _prevent _the abuse of a woman who had committed her life to serving him."

He watched her as she thought through her response to what he had said. House was no saint, but he couldn't comprehend what kind of man would be lucky enough to wake up every morning with her in his bed and still be able to beat her nearly to death. Chloe on the inside seemed to be just as beautiful as Chloe on the outside. He knew that if he had been so incredibly fortunate to have her he would have treated her with tenderness, gentleness, and respect. She would never have had to worry about anyone or anything harming her because he would die before he would allow that to happen; House believed this to his core, and he had only known her but a few hours.

"God was there," she told him without a hint of doubt in her voice. "He's the one who performed a miracle by allowing me to survive three months in a coma followed by a year of therapy to learn how to walk and talk and feed myself again. He was there when I completed my doctorate when I should have been dead two years before from a massive bleed on my brain. It was not God who abused me, it was Joseph. God was the one who went through it all with me and didn't abandon me for a moment. He's here right now, blessing me with the opportunity to spend time with _you_."

She was smiling at him, the sadness he had seen in her eyes gone and replaced with something he rarely ever saw in anyone else and couldn't remember experiencing himself: Joy. He couldn't look away from her, and in spite of everything he knew to be true, he couldn't form an argument to what she had just said. _What the hell is happening to me?_ House asked himself in wonder. _One look at her and I can't even think straight!_

"You're staring at me again," she told him, blushing slightly. "Is there something wrong with me? Something on my face, perhaps?"

House couldn't help but smile. "I can't see a single thing wrong with you," he told her honestly, shaking his head. "Of course, I can't see _everything_ but if you want to remove your clothing I can give you a thorough examination and offer you a definitive answer. It's a sacrifice I'm willing to make."

Chloe smiled amusedly at him. If she was offended she certainly didn't show it. "But _I'_m not. Especially not here."

_Intriguing_, House thought, _that she added the qualifying sentence_. He searched her face for a hint as to what she was thinking, but couldn't read anything. The hostess returned with their drinks and then returned quickly to the door to greet other customers. He watched her daintily open the tea packet and drop the tea bag into the small pot of hot water placed in front of her.

"How about elsewhere?" he suggested half-jokingly.

"No," she told him, still smiling, her eyes flashing. "Do you try to get everybody you take to lunch in bed with you on the same day?"

"Only the women," he assured her. "I do have my standards."

"So as long as the person has two x chromosomes and a pulse they fit your standards?" Chloe asked, her eyes widening, guilelessly.

House shook his head and answered dead-pan, "A pulse is optional."

Chloe laughed. It sounded like bells chiming. House couldn't fight a smile of his own.

"_C'est terrible_!" she scolded good-heartedly. "I heard rumors that you were a scoundrel."

"My reputation precedes me, "he acknowledged with a nod.

A server approached their table and took their order and then disappeared again.

Chloe poured the steeped tea into the cup she had been given. The smell of peppermint rose with the steam. She gingerly took a sip of the hot beverage before saying, "I try not to listen to gossip but sometimes people feel it is their duty in life to force unwanted information on others. I prefer to get to know somebody by asking him questions and getting the answers from the horse's mouth, so to speak."

"What do you want to know?" House asked her simply. He couldn't understand it, but he felt just as at ease with her as he did with Wilson, whom he had known for years. It astounded him.

"You know that I grew up on a dairy farm in Quebec, that I have nine siblings, that I was married to a beast and I have a fantastic daughter, but I hardly know anything about _you_." She spread her hands open before him. "Who are _you_, Dr. Gregory House? Where do you come from? What was life like growing up? Why did you decide to become a doctor? Have you married? Do you have little Gregs and Gregettes running around? There are so many questions."

"And too little time," House told her. "So I'll give you the Cole's notes version."

"It's a start," Chloe agreed amiably.

House took a moment to figure out exactly what it was that he was prepared to tell her.

"I was a Marine Brat," he began. "My father was a career man and my mother his devoted wife who was willing to go anywhere and do almost anything to be with him. When I was born, she decided that there was no way she was going to be stuck in the States when he travelled the world, so from my earliest memories I never knew a permanent home. I've lived in thirty-odd states, foreign countries that include France, Germany, Egypt, India and my personal favorite, Japan."

"That would make it difficult to make friends and form relationships," Chloe observed. As he spoke she seemed to hang onto hi s every word.

"I learned to do without," House admitted impassively. "It was easier to not make friends and spend my time alone than to make friends only to have to move again and miss them and then start the whole damned process over again. Learning to rely on myself that way has been useful. My father ran his home like he did his Marines: With strict discipline and punishment you never forgot and never wanted to experience again."

"He abused you?" Chloe asked, frowning with compassion and empathy.

House shook his head. "He _disciplined_ me. Ice baths, sleeping in the yard, being forced to stand in one spot without moving half-an inch for eight or nine hours at a time, cleaning the entire kitchen with nothing but a toothbrush, push-ups until I collapsed in exhaustion, passed out and woke up in agony in my bed where my mother had taken me. All for infractions as simple as forgetting the order in which the flatware went around the plate when I set the table, spilling a glass of water, not making my bed tight enough to bounce a quarter off of. It was…fun."

"That _is_ abuse, Greg," Chloe told him. "What about your mother? Did she try to stop him? Did he treat her the same way?"

"He expected perfection from _everyone_," House told her, "including Mom. It was the sixties and she was a military wife. She tried to make it up to me afterwards, when Dad wasn't around. Dad never let a day go by where he didn't tell me what a disappointment I was or that I would never amount to anything."

"So you became a doctor to prove him wrong?"

"No," he sighed. "I decided to be a doctor when I observed a brilliant physician who was considered an untouchable in his culture but was the one who was sought out when a tough case came around. I saw how he was considered worthless as a person and the only reason others had anything to do with him at all was because of what he could do. He was kept around because of his skill, and that was all. That's when I knew that being a doctor—a great doctor—would ensure me a place when that was the only redeeming feature anyone saw in me."

"You became indispensible," Chloe interpreted carefully, "To ensure that you were at least needed if not wanted. C'est horrible! But surely after you left home, after you were met with success, you came to realize that your father was completely wrong."

"It took flunking out of several medical schools before it stuck," House told her. "I eventually found my niche, felt comfortable with my skills. I've never had much use for other people. It's hard, it's pointless to try to care and leave yourself open to hurting when, not _if_, a patient died. It shouldn't matter what the doctor feels or doesn't feel so long as he cures his patients. I decided it was better to be a bastard with a terrible bedside manner and an indispensible skill than to be everybody's best friend, be loved by all of my patients and practice mediocre medicine. About the only friend I have is Wilson and only because the man is either a closet masochist or has the patience of Job—I'm not sure which. I know I don't deserve him as my friend."

"This Wilson—do you mean Dr. James Wilson? The oncologist?" she asked.

House nodded. "He mentioned that he had met you this morning when he came in to work." House didn't mention the part where she had been nicknamed 'the Goddess'.

She nodded, thinking about what she had just heard. "I think that if I asked James whether or not your assessment is true, he would almost certainly disagree with you."

House wished he could be as confidant about that as Chloe seemed to be. Wilson was incredibly loyal considering all of the reasons the diagnostician had given him over the years to throw up his hands and walk away.

"What about romance?" Chloe asked with a warm smile. "I cannot believe that a man as handsome and intelligent as you are has not had his share of women fawning over him."

"Fawning?" he echoed in surprise and then almost bashfully admitted, "I've known a few. Nothing that's lasted. I'm extremely difficult to love enough to make it worth putting up with the bullshit I know how to dish out."

Chloe stared at him for what seemed to be an eternity. Her face was impossible to read. He wondered if she was regretting having lunch with him.

"You're wrong," she told him, shaking her head. She reached over the table and took his hand in hers, giving it a comforting squeeze before withdrawing hers again. Where she had touched him, his skin tingled and he couldn't help but want her to touch him again.

"I see someone who is worthy of being loved," she continued, "who has been robbed of his fair share of it in his life. Forgive me if I am reading you wrong, but from what I have observed and heard said about you, I see you as someone who has been hurt very badly in his life, not by just one person but by a number of people whom have betrayed your trust in them. You've taught yourself, and not without reason, that it is safer to be cynical and suspicious of people than to trust them and risk being betrayed again. Those you should have been able to trust lied to you so you've erected a wall around yourself and have denied yourself the warmer, more vulnerable emotions because the colder, more aggressive ones make you feel more powerful and safe."

He caught his breath, unaware that he was doing so. She told him, after just a few hours of meeting him, what Dr. Nolan had observed after weeks of psychotherapy. How could she know all of that? Who told her about him? She was reaching a part of him that he feared even approaching on his own. He felt a twinge of undirected anger that she would presume to know so much about him so soon, but that quickly dissipated because she was, for the greater part, correct. She spoke gently and he detected no trace of disapproval or pity, just empathy.

House exhaled, realizing that he had been holding his breath.

"You're wrong," he lied, his throat feeling tight.

"No," she said, calling his bluff and he looked up at her in surprise. "I don't think I am. I don't mean to embarrass you, but I've been told so many negative things about you from hospital staff yet in just the short time I have known you, I haven't seen anything to justify them. I think that their appraisal would change if they took the time to actually get to know you before forming their opinions."

"I wouldn't let them get close enough if they tried," he admitted to her honestly.

"I believe you," Chloe agreed. "It would be very frightening for you to do so. That's nothing to be ashamed of. Perhaps it's time to take some small risks and let people look inside the wall from time to time. I think they would see in you what you've allowed me to see. Listen, I've been told that you don't care about your patients, but your indignation towards the Gartner's this morning was _not_ born out of indifference. They've said that you're a coarse, miserable sot but instead I've seen a likable, sober and yes, cynical man whom possesses many redeeming qualities. I do agree that you could very well be quite the scoundrel, but that's not all bad. Scoundrels can make things interesting sometimes." She smiled teasingly, taking another sip of her tea.

House didn't know what to say to that. He was unaccustomed to talking about things so personal and painful but at the same time, it felt good to be told things about himself that weren't angry and condemning. He found it difficult to believe in the sincerity of most people when they complimented him and would usually offer a sarcastic reply. For some reason, he couldn't help but think that Chloe was being genuine and it stirred emotions he normally avoided feeling.

"Show's how much you know," he self-denigrated, forcing a sarcastic smirk onto his face. "People obviously failed to tell you about my drunken, drug-fuelled exploits."

Chloe smiled. "Why don't _you_ tell me about them—if you feel comfortable enough to do that?"

House was very relieved at that moment to see their server return with their food, placing it before them and asking if there was anything more he could get them; there wasn't and the server left them again. He picked up his hamburger and took a deep bite to avoid having to find something to say to her, but he watched, chewing, as Chloe bowed her head slightly and closed her eyes for a few seconds and then looked up at him again. She smiled warmly at him and then began to eat her spinach salad.

The diagnostician couldn't resist the urge to comment. "Did your food say anything back?"

"Yes," she retorted jokingly after swallowing. "It reminded me to thank God for creating spinach in the first place and then said, 'If you're going to eat me, please be merciful and do it quickly."

House stifled a chuckle but a smile escaped him. She wasn't afraid to fire back when fired upon and her quirky sense of humor spoke of the remarkable intelligence she possessed. It began to dawn on him that she was used to being taunted about her beliefs and had a lot of practice of responding confidently to it. It was a shame that such an intelligent woman could be so deluded as to believe in a mythological creation of over-active imaginations, but he didn't doubt her sincerity in her faith. It was refreshing to see someone who actually believed what she preached, even if it was insanity.

He looked down at his plate. Did he feel comfortable telling her about his addiction? It wasn't like she would remain ignorant of his failings for long. He figured he might as well be the one to tell her about them. He wondered what kind of sermon he would receive when he was done.

"A few years ago," he began, "I suffered an infarction that caused the quadricep muscle in my leg to necrotize and—"

"I'm sorry? You lost blood flow to your muscle?" she clarified. House nodded; he was used to talking almost exclusively with physicians and forgot that not everybody understood medical jargon. He was impressed that she knew what an infarction was.

"Correct," he answered with a nod. "The muscle tissue without the flow of blood to it began to necrotize, or die, causing secondary complications like infection and shock. I was put into a chemically-induced coma for a variety of reasons, including pain control. Before I went under I told Stacy—she was the closest thing to a long-term relationship that I've had-- that I wanted to have a life-threatening procedure that if done correctly would have saved my leg, but after I was put under, Stacy told Dr. Cuddy to perform the safer procedure which left me with a huge chunk of my thigh gone and a great deal of permanent pain." He paused, looking for a reaction but the only expression on Chloe's face was one of complete attention. He went on. "I was put onto heavy pain killers, Vicodin, mostly, but I continued to use them much longer than I should have. The damned thing is, I was in denial about my addiction for a while and then when I couldn't deny it any longer, I didn't care because they eased more than just the physical pain I felt. I was convinced that my ability to practice medicine wasn't impaired by it. Just the thought of stopping was something I couldn't…I couldn't face."

Instead of pity or condemnation, like he had feared, Chloe looked at him with understanding.

"Of course you couldn't," she said softly. "Addiction is a disease that tricks your brain into believing at its most primitive levels that if you stop taking the drug, you will literally die. You went through a terrible trauma. It is not surprising that you sought out those things that served to numb your emotional pain as well as the physical pain."

House stared at her as she spoke. _God, she's incredible_, he marveled. No matter what he told her, she was not repulsed or scared away by it. How was it that she was sitting there with _him_ instead of being possessively guarded but some luckier, worthier man than he?

"I was selfish," he admitted, only meeting her eyes in brief glances before looking away again. "I earned my reputation, believe me. I'm not a pleasant person to be around at the best of times. On Vicodin and booze I'm a complete son-of-a-bitch."

Chloe shook her head in objection but didn't voice it. Instead she asked, "When did you sober up?"

"This past summer," he admitted with a rueful smile. "I became completely psychotic and began hallucinating as a result of heavy opiate abuse over many years. I believed that Wilson's dead girlfriend was my subconscious mind, following me around everywhere and telling me what to do. I nearly killed one of my Fellows by arranging for him to consume a product containing strawberries, which I _knew_ that he was allergic to, during the bachelor party _I_ threw for him. He went into anaphylactic shock."

Chloe smiled wryly. "It's a good thing the groom had doctors in attendance, non? I'm sorry…please continue."

He sighed heavily. "I had lost all touch with reality. In a brief moment of sanity I realized I needed help. Wilson knew of a good psychiatric facility where I could detox and not be able to con my way into getting drugs brought to me on the inside."

She nodded. "So do you continue to see a therapist for your addiction? I would imagine that you would need some kind of follow up or support, especially so soon after your release from hospital."

"Yes, I see a psychiatrist regularly to make certain my head stays shrunk. When I was released it was on the condition that I not go back to living alone, so I moved in with Wilson."

"And how is that going?"

"Have you ever seen 'The Odd Couple'?" House replied, forming a sardonic smile.

Chloe chuckled, "That was a little before my time, but I've heard of it. Let me guess: Wilson is Felix and you are Oscar?" She sobered again. "What about your leg? What are you doing about the pain now that you cannot take Vicodin?"

"Not a hell of a lot," House told her, absently rubbing his thigh under the table. "I use extra-strength Ibuprofen and acetaminophen, aspirin, a heating pad, elevation, masturbation and driving Wilson insane. Work helps too."

"How do you deal with anxiety and cravings?" she asked. "Especially in a hospital with drugs being administered all around you. That must be difficult."

"You have no idea," he answered honestly. "Some days I can't think about anything else. I don't expect you to understand."

Chloe sat back in her seat and smiled thoughtfully. "I think you are very courageous. It is not easy to face your personal demons and combat them head on. And I think you would be surprised, Greg, what I am capable of understanding."

"Really?" House sat forward in interest. A sly smile toyed with his mouth. "What sort of naughty things do you have hidden in _your_ closet, Chloe?" He raised an eyebrow for emphasis. "Red see-through, frilly things, I hope."

Chloe looked at her watch and made to rise. "Oh, my, would you look at that? I need to be getting back to the hospital…."

House gently grabbed one of her hands as if to say, you're not getting off that easily now sit down.

"'Quid pro quo', Chloe," House said in his best Hannibal Lector impression, which was actually pretty badly done, he knew. "If you don't cough it up, I'll have to use my imagination and make up something really _lurid_ to spread around."

He reveled in seeing the rekindled flame in her eyes.

"You wouldn't," she challenged, trying not to smile. She leaned towards him in an attempt to appear intimidating. It failed.

"Do you really want to test that hypothesis?" he replied playfully, leaning in as well. House realized just how close their faces were at that moment. All he would have to do was lean in… another two inches… and he would be able to caress her lips with his….

She considered his question a moment and then wisely relented, sighing in resignation. "What do you want to know?"

House barely heard her, so focused was he on her mouth. He was a heartbeat from going for it when she backed away at the last moment_. Foiled_! He thought in disappointment, sighing silently. It was then when he realized he was still holding one of her hands, but she wasn't protesting yet so he didn't let go.

"What would _you_ know about…cravings?" he asked.

"I do have a thirteen year old daughter," she answered slowly, smiling slightly. "I am _anything _but a saint. I've made my share of rebellious decisions and misdemeanors."

"Do tell," he insisted, getting really turned on by her flirting. He wondered if she fully understood what kind of effect she was having on him with those ruddy, pouty lips, her dark and delicious eyes, the way that her blouse teased the eye into thinking that it may catch a glimpse of her breasts if she moved just a little bit closer…he wasn't certain if he was going to be able to contain himself. He wanted to go over to her, pull her into his embrace and kiss her like she had never been kissed before.

"It would take longer than we have for lunch," she told him, grinning and shaking her head.

"I doubt that," he said with a devious smile. "Besides, we're both heads of our respective departments so if we fudge a little on our lunch hour, I think we'll get away with it. You strike me as someone who's half-angel, half-devil. By day you say '_non, non_.' but by night it is '_oui, oui_!'."

"I guess you'll just have to keep wondering about that."

"Uh, uh. I'm not leaving _you _alone until you tell me," House insisted stubbornly. "I can be extremely tenacious that way."

"And here I thought you _wanted_ me to tell you," Chloe answered playfully. They looked into each others' eyes for a long time, speechless. House found himself losing himself in hers. He no longer had any appetite for food. He wanted to devour _her_. She must have read his thoughts because he saw Chloe's cheeks flush, her eyes shimmering. House now held her hand in both of his. Her hand was soft and smooth.

"I want to see you again," he told her almost urgently, searching her face for a clue of what she was thinking. "What are you doing tonight?"

Chloe didn't break the connection with his eyes. "I have commitments at my church," she said, sounding regretful.

House couldn't hide his disappointment, but he was undaunted. "What about tomorrow night?"

There was a pregnant pause before she smiled and answered, "It would appear that I'm spending it with you."

That was exactly the answer he was hoping to hear.

Chloe looked away first, gently withdrawing her hand from his and taking a sip of what must have been tepid tea. Her hand trembled very slightly. She was an enigma. One moment she was modest, even shy and in the next she was playful and confident; neither state appeared to be feigned or forced. There was so much about her he wanted to know, but she was a puzzle; that was alright because House's favorite pursuit was solving puzzles.

For a moment, Chloe looked distracted by something behind him. She frowned. House turned to see what it was she saw. Behind him there was the bar partitioned off from the restaurant by a half-wall. Several people sat at the bar but one individual in particular stood out from the rest due to the fact that he was arguing with the bartender. The man's voice gave himself away to the diagnostician. House frowned, his lips pressed firmly together. He was angry, very angry, but at the same time he felt worried. He tried to banish his concern but it refused to be ignored. He turned back around and exhaled loudly.

Chloe saw the expression on House's face. "Do you know who that is?"

House nodded, rising from the table. "Unfortunately I do. He's soon to be a former employee for the second time."

She sensed his anger and gave him a look that said 'calm down'. How was it that she could read him so well?

"I'll be right back," he told her. He pulled out his wallet, dropped some money on the table and grabbed his cane. He made a bee-line for the bar.

Walking up behind the troublemaker, House listened to the argument.

"I'm an adult," the customer complained angrily. His words were badly slurred and he swayed on his barstool. "I know when I've had enough. Now get me another damned drink!"

"You're cut off," the bartender told him firmly. "I'll call you a cab."

"The hell you will!" the customer exploded and began to stand up. House clamped his hand tightly on his shoulder and forced him back down again, hard.

"Chase!" the diagnostician nearly shouted. Robert Chase spun around in his seat in surprise. He glared blearily up at House angrily.

"It's none of your business, House! Go to hell!"

"You know this guy?" the bartender demanded. House nodded, not looking away from Chase for a moment.

"Call for the cab," he told the bartender with more restraint than House thought he was capable of showing. He sat on the stool next to the younger doctor, keeping his hand on Chase's shoulder in case he tried to get up again. "You're done for today!" he told the Aussie, his voice a growl.

"You're not my father!" Chase spat. The hostility emanating from him was tangible. "F—k off!"

"We're both lucky I'm not!" House told him loudly and then lowered his voice. "_You're_ lucky I'm having a good day or else I'd fire your ass as we speak!"

The diagnostician appraised the younger doctor. It was weird for House to be the sober one trying to deal with the drunk instead of _being_ the drunk raving for more booze and ready to take on everyone in the bar to get it. So this is what it was like for Wilson, House thought ruefully. He saw so much of himself in Chase and even though he would never admit it to another soul, it worried him. Cameron's words echoed mockingly in his head.

"I don't give a damn," Chase replied, looking away. "I don't care what happens to me."

House sighed. "I know."

The bartender finished making the call and returned to them. He handed House Chase's car keys.

"How much does he owe?" House demanded, not looking away from Chase. The younger man was now slumped over his empty glass, seething.

"He's paid up. He gave me his credit card number and told me to keep them coming," was the answer.

"How many has he had?"

"Not enough," Chase muttered bitterly. House ignored him.

"Two beers and four double Jacks," the bartender replied.

"In what period of time?"

"I don't know," the bartender snapped, irritated. "Forty-five minutes or an hour, I guess."

"And you're just cutting him off _now_?" the diagnostician asked incredulously. The bartender shrugged. He walked away to serve his other customers. House looked at Chase; he intended on remaining there until the cab arrived to make certain Chase stayed out of trouble and actually got into the vehicle.

"Impressive," House commented dryly to Chase. "Of course, in a contest I'd drink you under the table and still be able to walk out of here."

The younger doctor didn't respond.

"Trust me on this," House said to Chase quietly. "Bourbon won't make things any better."

Chase looked up at him without lifting his head. "Maybe I should try Vicodin, then," he slurred nearly unintelligibly.

House ignored the jab directed at him. "You need to get your shit straightened out if you expect to stay on my team."

"Look who's lecturing!" Chase laughed derisively. "The most f—ked up asshole I know!" His speech was so slurred, House had difficulty understanding him.

"Keep this up," House retorted, "and you'll come in a close second! None of this is going to get rid of what's happened, you stupid wombat!"

Chase had nothing to say to that. House wondered if he was able to say anything at all. The younger doctor looked like he was about to pass out. There were droplets of sweat on his brow and upper lip. House balanced his cane on his lap and then grabbed Chase's wrist, feeling for his pulse. Chase failed to resist. His pulse was too fast, too thready and his skin was cold and clammy. House watched the rise and fall of Chase's chest. His breathing was slow, too slow.

"Hey!" The diagnostician shouted, waving the bartender over.

"Forget the cab," House told him urgently. "Call an ambulance!"

"Are you serious?" was the bartender's skeptical reply. House glared at him and had to say no more. The bartender went to grab the cordless phone behind the bar and dialed 9-1-1. After placing the call, he returned.

"Are you going to tell me now how much you really served him?" House snarled. "I'll find out when I test his blood alcohol concentration back at the hospital but telling me now would save me some work!"

"You're a doctor?" the bartender asked.

"Tell me!" House commanded, raising his voice. He wasn't interested in playing Twenty Questions. Everybody in the bar and restaurant heard him and the din died down as eyes were drawn to them. The diagnostician didn't notice.

"Okay," the bartender said _sotto voce_, looking around anxiously. "He had a couple more. Look, I don't want to get fired, okay?"

"A couple more _doubles_?" House pressed. Chase swayed forward suddenly and his head hit the bar in front of him. He began to fall sideways towards House, who had to keep his unconscious body from falling to the floor.

"Yes," the bartender blurted, now looking terrified. "Yes. Look he gave me twenty bucks to keep them coming! I didn't know he couldn't handle his booze!"

House was too focused on Chase to go ballistic on the idiot behind the bar but he wanted to knock more than a just a little sense into him. He felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Chloe.

"Let's lay him down," she suggested, all business. Grabbing an arm, she and another man at the bar took Chase from House and carefully laid him out on his back on the floor. Without being told, Chloe efficiently rolled him onto his stomach into the recovery position, turning his head to the side and elevating it slightly on his arm so that he could breathe freely and to protect his airway should he vomit.

House climbed off of his barstool and awkwardly crouched down next to her; the pain in his leg was terrible. He would have been surprised that Chloe knew what to do if he hadn't already observed how intelligent she was. Chloe turned to a woman standing closest to her.

"I need your jacket," she said to her, reaching out for it. The woman grabbed it and handed it to the chaplain without argument. Chloe draped it over Chase in an effort to keep him from going into shock. House nodded his approval. She knew her first aid well.

"Lousy way to end lunch," House said to her apologetically as he felt for Chase's pulse again.

"Especially for _him_," she replied and then gave House a little smile that told him not to worry about it. "So this is alcohol poisoning. He doesn't seem to be breathing much."

"The respiratory center in his brain is being suppressed by the excessive concentration of alcohol in his blood," House explained. "It's shutting his breathing down."

Chase's body heaved involuntarily and he threw up onto the floor around his face. Without a second thought Chloe grabbed a couple of napkins from off of the bar and cleared the vomit from his face and mouth to prevent him from aspirating it. House watched her place a hand on Chase's back and begin to pray silently.

"It won't help," House groused cynically.

She ignored him, continuing to pray in a whisper, "_Cher Dieu, sil vous plait sauf cet homme_!"*

Suddenly her eyes opened and she looked at House in alarm. "I don't feel him breathing at all!" she announced.

"Help me flip him," House told her. She didn't have to be told twice. Chase was flipped over to his back. House put his ear to the younger doctor's chest, listening intently. He heard nothing, no breathing nor heartbeat.

"He's gone into arrest!" House told her. "I need you to breathe for him. Do you know how to do that?" Before he could finish his sentence Chloe was calmly tilting Chase's head back to open his airway, pinching his nose shut and clamping her mouth over his to form an air tight seal. House took over chest compressions, counting out the rhythm which they both followed. He paused after three sets of twenty to allow her to force two breaths of air into Chase's lungs. House checked for a pulse and then continued with the compressions. He could faintly hear the sound of a siren in the distance. It grew in volume quickly.

They continued with CPR for what seemed like an eternity. A hush hovered over the entire establishment.

"…eighteen, nineteen and twenty," House counted off quietly, "and breathe!"

Chloe blew two more breaths deeply into the surgeon's lungs. House kept up the compressions. "One and two and three and four and five—come on, Chase! Damn it! Fight!"

The ambulance sounded like it was less than a block away. A restaurant employee ran out the bar entrance to meet the paramedics and direct them where to go.

"Still no pulse," Chloe panted, her fingers carefully pressing Chase's carotid artery. House could hear how winded she sounded and knew she wouldn't be able to continue breathing for both Chase and herself much longer. House heard the sound of footfalls behind him. He glanced over his shoulder, grateful to see that the paramedics had finally arrived. One carried a portable defibrillator and bag.

Chloe backed away from Chase and stepped out of the way so the paramedics could get near.

"I'm a doctor," House told them simply. They set up the defibrillator to shock Chase in an attempt at restarting the young doctor's heart. Paramedic Two attached leads onto Chase's skin and hooked him up to a heartbeat monitor in seconds. He then pulled a mask out of his gear bag, attached a transparent plastic billows to it, placed the mask over the surgeon's face and began to compress the billows, or 'bag' him, forcing air into the patient's lungs. Paramedic One squeezed conductive gel from a tube onto Chase's chest, which House had unceremoniously bared by tearing his shirt open, popping buttons everywhere. House took the defibrillator paddles from Paramedic One.

"Charge two hundred!" House ordered.

"Charged," Paramedic One told him.

"Clear!" House commanded. Both paramedics withdrew contact with Chase. House placed the paddles on the Aussie's chest and discharged electricity into him. Chase's body convulsed once and was then at rest. There was no indication of a heartbeat on the monitor.

"Damn," House muttered and then said aloud, "Epinephrine!"

Paramedic One produced a large, pre-loaded syringe and handed it to the diagnostician, taking the paddles from him. House, with practiced precision, punched the needle of the syringe through Chase's ribs and into his heart. He injected the entire dose into the younger doctor, but there was no response. House withdrew the needle and tossed the syringe aside.

"Charge two hundred!" House said again, retrieving the paddles.

"Charged!"

"Clear!" House warned and then sent another burst of electricity into Chase. A beep emitted from the monitor, followed by another and then three more. Chase's heartbeat fell into a consistent rhythm that was still weak but at least present. House handed the paddles to Paramedic One. Paramedic Two continued to bag Chase while Paramedic One started a line in his arm and began a bag of fluid down the I.V., open-bored.

House located his cane and rose with difficulty to his feet as the paramedics lifted Chase onto a gurney. He looked for Chloe. She had anticipated what needed to be done and was already next to him with his jacket, helping him put it on.

"You're going to ride with him," Chloe said before House could tell her. It wasn't a question.

House nodded. "Sorry to ditch you," he apologized.

"You're not ditching me," Chloe argued with a reassuring smile. "I'll see you back at the hospital."

He was relieved by her understanding and impressed by her common sense. He smiled weakly at her and placed his hand gently on her cheek, caressing it briefly before following the Paramedics aboard the ambulance. The driver slammed the rear doors shut and then rounded to the front, climbing in quickly and pulling the ambulance into traffic. He set the siren screaming as they drove away.

* Translation: "Dear God, please save this man!"


	8. Chapter 8

**Reconciliations: A House M.D. Story**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its concept, current story line and characters past and current are the property of David Shore and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

A/N: Whew! We made it through Chapter Seven! Thank you to my readers for the time you take to read this story. It is the greatest compliment I can receive! I covet your reviews so keep them coming! I'm going to be digging in and working to get the Christmas chapter posted by Thursday, so wish me luck! If not by Christmas, then definitely before New Year's.

Songs which helped inspire this chapter include: "Bad Day" by Daniel Powter and "Lean on Me" by Bill Withers and "Hazy Shade of Winter" by The Bangles.

**Chapter Eight**

Chase was already being attended to in an ER bay when Chloe arrived. Her ID badge gave her entrance into the ER proper, bypassing the long line up of sick and wounded, skirting past the triage nurse and security guard posted there. She managed to catch a nurse long enough to find out which bay Chase had been taken to: Bay 8. She strode briskly past the line of beds, all of which were occupied, some of which were enclosed by privacy curtains. When she reached Bay 8 the curtain was open; medical personnel had been in such a hurry to treat Chase that they didn't bother with privacy. Three nurses, the ER doctor and House worked quickly and efficiently together; it was like watching dancers expertly follow a choreographed piece.

Unfortunately, the theme of the dance they were currently presenting was the resuscitation of Dr. Robert Chase. He had 'crashed' again and they were once more trying to restart the surgeon's heart. Chloe stood watching well out of the way of the action. She removed her wet jacket, draping it over an arm and wiped her face free of rain droplets with a hand. It was cool in the ER, as it nearly always was, and that combined with being wet caused goosebumps to form on her exposed skin. She barely noticed. Her concentration was focused on something far more important. She had her eyes open, but she was praying fervently in her spirit for the young doctor whom she was barely acquainted with. She had been praying the entire time she ran back to PPTH.

It was such a waste. This brilliant young doctor was fighting for his life because of drink. Why he was drinking in the middle of the day when he was supposed to be working she didn't know, but it was reasonable to presume that it was not his normal behavior to do so. From her years of experience Chloe strongly suspected that Chase was in some form of distress; he may have been unable to think of any other way to find relief from his raging emotions and so, as with too many others, had tried to dull that pain by self-medicating himself with alcohol. It was a legal and readily available drug almost anyone could acquire. She prayed that God would help him find peace in the midst of his turmoil instead of poisoning himself like he just had, that is, if he managed to survive this time.

House was once again working with the ER doctor to defibrillate Chase's heart. Just in the time she had been standing there they had tried twice without success. The setting was increased from two hundred and fifty to three hundred. Just as had happened at the bar and grill, House placed the paddles onto Chase's exposed chest, everyone around the bed backed away, and the electric pulse was discharged into his torso. His body convulsed once before coming to rest again. The monitor beside the bed was still displaying a flat line. She could read the curse House expelled on his lips but she couldn't hear it.

"Oh my god," a voice said from beside her. She looked over to see Dr. Cuddy arrive, staring at the same tableau as she. "What _happened_?"

Chloe sighed. "He was at the bar of the restaurant Greg and I went to for lunch. He became belligerent, catching Greg's attention. He went over to speak with Dr. Chase, and very shortly after that he collapsed and required CPR until the ambulance arrived. It was alcohol poisoning. Apparently he was served the equivalent of 14 shots in under an hour."

Cuddy gasped, her hand rising to her mouth. She was shaking her head in dismay.

"What was the bartender thinking?" Cuddy said angrily.

"About the money Dr. Chase gave him to 'keep them coming', I presume," Chloe answered through her teeth, trying to repress her anger. "But it's not entirely the bartender's fault." Chloe shook her head sadly. "Dr. Chase had to have known that drinking that much so quickly would kill him."

Cuddy looked at Chloe incredulously. "You're not saying that he intentionally poisoned himself? That's preposterous!"

"Not necessarily," Chloe argued softly. "Of course only God and he know what he was thinking, but suicide is a possibility that must not be dismissed out of hand. The question is: What would make him desperate enough to drink that much?"

"His wife left him last night," yet another voice answered. Both Cuddy and Chloe looked over to Wilson who moved to stand on the other side of the chaplain. "He was dealing with a lot before that. Cameron's departure must have been more than he could handle."

Now Chloe understood. How many patients had she prayed with and counseled who became suicidal when a loved one died or a relationship fell apart? She remembered how hard it had hit her when the final divorce papers arrived by courier at her door. She had felt devastated despite the fact that Joseph had abused her for years. It was a huge failure on her part as well as his. No divorce carried one-sided blame. How much worse it must be when relations less violent ended up in separation and divorce!

Almost immediately after Wilson had arrived, Doctors Foreman, Taub and Hadley arrived and sullenly stood watching as each attempt made to resuscitate Chase failed. House kept shocking the younger doctor but no matter what he and the other medical personnel did it failed. Finally, The ER doctor backed away from the table with a look of defeat.

"Dr. House," he said shaking his head. "Stop now. He's _gone_."

"Like hell he is!" House yelled, in a state of frenzied determination. "Charge 300!"

"No," the ER doctor said again more forcefully. "It's time to call it!"

House pushed the other doctor out of the way, recharging the defibrillator himself and returning to Chase's side. The others in the bay stood quietly back while this took place.

"Clear!" he said pointlessly, perspiration dripping from him. He discharged the energy into Chase's lifeless body. Nothing.

Chloe had tears running down her cheeks that were more from seeing House's desperation to save one of his fellows than from grief of the younger doctor's passing. There wasn't a dry eye among the others, either. She looked at Wilson. Remembering that he was House's best friend, she touched his arm.

"Help him," she whispered to Wilson simply. The oncologist nodded, understanding that she meant House, not Chase. He approached the bay as House was trying to charge the defibrillator yet again and the ER doctor was trying to block his way. Wilson grabbed House's shoulder.

"House."

Angrily House shrugged Wilson's hand away.

"No," he growled but Wilson calmly persisted.

"Greg, for god's sake, let him go. Let him die with dignity." Wilson's voice was calm and even.

Chloe could see House look at his friend, debating whether to push Wilson out of his way or listen to him. After a few moments, the older doctor relented, his shoulders dropping in defeat.

"Come," Wilson said softly to him. One of the nurses took the paddles out of House's hands without a fight.

"Time of death," the ER doctor said regretfully, "Thirteen hundred forty seven hours."

Cuddy was barely holding herself together. Foreman and Taub, misty-eyed, were very still and very quiet. Thirteen stood with her arms wrapped around herself. A tear ran down her cheek and her eyes appeared haunted, but she was otherwise calm. Chloe inhaled a shaky breath and blew it out of her mouth slowly. She wiped the tears out of her eyes. For the first time since arriving in the ER she began to shiver from being cold but forced herself to ignore it.

Wilson placed his hand between House's shoulder blades and gently guided him away from the bed as a nurse draped a sheet over Chase's body and face. As the friends walked past Chloe, both Wilson and House looked at her. Wilson's eyes thanked her for being there and House's sought hers out and held hers for a brief, intense moment before looking away. She wasn't able to read him, but the emptiness in them concerned her. Wilson led him away quietly and the others made no move towards them. They all knew that the last thing House wanted at that moment was to be comforted or to commiserate with them. He had withdrawn deep inside of himself.

Chloe forced her own emotions aside and turned to Cuddy.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" she asked the Dean of Medicine softly.

Cuddy shook her head. "No. Thank you." She left the ER and House's Fellows dispersed as well. Chloe looked over at the bed where Dr. Chase laid covered in white.

_Such a waste_, Chloe thought, feeling both angry and sad at the same time. She walked away in silence. During the height of the tension all the sounds of the busy ER seemed to have faded out as if someone had pressed mute on some cosmic remote control but now as she passed through the busy waiting room all of the sounds returned full volume as if someone un-muted the universe again.

* * *

When Cuddy returned to her office she was surprised to find Lucas Douglas and her daughter Rachel waiting for her. She hurried over to Rachel and scooped her up into her arms, hugging her as closely as she could. It was like the baby sensed that her mother needed to be comforted and didn't whimper or resist. The Dean buried her face in Rachel's furry jacket, inhaling the comforting scent of her combined with baby lotion. Unable to hold the emotion back any longer, she began to sob quietly.

She sensed Lucas come to her from behind and and wrap his arms around her comfortingly.

"Hey," he said gently, "Lisa, what's wrong?"

She shook her head, keeping her face buried until Rachel decided she'd had enough and began to whimper and squirm. Cuddy pulled her face back and Lucas relieved her of the baby. He set Rachel onto the floor and turned his attention to her mother. He came around in front of her and drew her into a real embrace. She clung to him until her sobs subsided and she regained her composure. He allowed her to draw away a little.

"What happened, Baby?" he murmured to her.

Sighing, Cuddy shook her head in disbelief, trying to wrap her mind around what had just happened. "I just watched Robert Chase die in the ER."

The look on Lucas's face matched the way she felt—shocked.

"What happened to him?" he asked her.

"Alcohol poisoning. House came in with him on the ambulance. His heart stopped at the bar and grill he was at and House managed to resuscitate him but just after arriving here he crashed again and he couldn't be revived."

Lucas shook his head. "What was he doing drinking in the middle of the day? Wasn't he supposed to be working?"

"Yes," Cuddy answered, pulling away and picking Rachel up again. "His wife left him. I guess he couldn't handle it. Then there's the moronic bartender who continued to serve him way past when he should have cut him off. He collapsed there, and House and Chloe began CPR until the paramedics arrived with a defibrillator. They brought him back once but…." She allowed her voice to trail off. She went to her desk and sat down with Rachel.

Lucas frowned, puzzled. "Who's Chloe?"

Cuddy looked at him in confusion, as if she hadn't heard what he said and then the connection was made in her brain and she was able to answer. "Chloe LaSalle. She's the new head of the chaplain's office that I hired not too long ago. House and she went for lunch at that bar and grill a block or two away from here."

"Connelly's?" He asked.

"Yes, that's it," Cuddy confirmed. "Chase was drinking there at the bar." She sighed heavily.

Lucas was quiet for a heartbeat. "House is dating this woman?"

Shrugging, Cuddy wiped a little bit of spittle off of Rachel's face. The baby wanted down again and Cuddy complied. "I don't know. Possibly." She was frowning.

She watched Lucas process this information. He was scratching his brown-haired head absently and she thought she saw the beginning of a smile cross his lips before disappearing into thin air unrealized. Cuddy knew what he was thinking. He was just as tired of House's meddling between them as she was and if House was dating someone else, it meant that he was moving on and would no longer be interfering with them anymore. The reason he wasn't grinning from ear to ear was probably because he wasn't certain what her position was on the matter. To be honest, Cuddy didn't know either, but she was certain that it was time for House to move on.

House. She wondered how he was doing. Her discussion with Wilson at lunch was supposed to have been a fishing expedition but instead it turned into a discussion of her concern for the diagnostician. She couldn't erase from her mind the desperation she had seen in his eyes and body language as he tried, unsuccessfully, to save Chase's life. She remembered how he had reacted to Kutner's suicide just a few months before. Would this set him back in his recovery again? Could it possibly threaten his sobriety if it already hadn't been compromised? Her one consolation was that House wasn't sitting around in his apartment alone but was with Wilson. The oncologist would take care of him and watch him for any sign of problems. She was grateful that House had someone who would be there for him no matter what. Just because a romantic relationship with him was not in cards didn't mean that she had stopped caring about him.

"Lisa?" Lucas said, breaking her out reverie.

"Yes?" she replied distractedly. "Did you say something?"

Lucas smiled, nodding. "Yeah. I said that I think you need to call it a day and come home with Rachel and me."

_Impossible_! Cuddy thought. There was too much to be done. Chase's death added to the pile of things she had to do before she could go home. The hardest would be trying to locate Allison Cameron to inform her of his death. They may have separated, but legally she was still his wife and next of kin. She needed to know, but Cuddy wasn't looking forward to telling her, and she seriously doubted that House was in any condition to do it.

"I'd love to," she told him tiredly, "but I can't. There are some things I have to take care of first. You know, I never asked you why you're here."

"Just so Rachel could say hello to her Mommy and I could see your beautiful face and do this," Lucas told her, approaching her and taking her hands, lifting her to her feet. He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her to him and cupping her cheek with his free hand. Lucas kissed her lovingly on the mouth and allowed it to linger before breaking away and gazing into her eyes.

Cuddy wished that the kiss had cheered her up but it had no effect on her at all. She felt numb and wasn't in the mood to kiss and hold each other and anything else Lucas may have had in mind. She wanted to finish the difficult tasks she had facing her so she could go home and decompress in a hot bath with a cup of tea and soft, soothing music playing in the background—_alone_.

"Thank you for bringing Rachel," Cuddy told Lucas. "I really needed to see her—_both_ of you—but you two are going to have to go home without me. I promise I won't stay here any longer than I have to."

Lucas gave her a look of concern but—thankfully—didn't insist. He leaned toward her and planted a soft kiss on her forehead. "Okay," he said softly. "We'll see you later." He picked up Rachel and handed her to her mother for another bear hug and kiss before putting her back into her car seat for the ride home. He walked to the door and paused before leaving. "Do just what you _have_ to. I'll have a hot bath waiting for you."

She smiled. He had read her mind.

* * *

Back up in ICU, Kirk Gartner laid awake and more alert than he had been since he was brought in. Thirteen and Foreman watched through glass walls as his mother sat on the bed next to him and stroked his head loving as they talked. His father had left for a business appointment. Kirk still had a ways to go in his recovery but the Acyclovir was beginning to do its job and barring any complications, he was going to be okay. It was a comforting thought. Thirteen sighed.

"One person lives, one dies. It seems so random. It just doesn't seem real." She shook her head, shrugging in frustration.

Foreman looked at her thoughtfully. He looked completely exhausted, exactly the way she felt. "If this is a bad dream, I really want to wake up now," he sighed. "I'm sorry for earlier," he told her. "You were right. But I'm not going to stop caring about you. If you need an ear to listen or a shoulder to lean on, I'm here for you…but only if you want it." His voice was wistful, soft.

Thirteen believed him. "Thanks," she said simply. Maybe they _could_ call a truce. Only time would tell.


	9. Chapter 9

**Reconciliations: A House M.D. Story**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its concept, current story line and characters past and current are the property of David Shore and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

A/N: To all Chase fans—I grieve with Thee! But remember—it's just a story! In the universe of FanFiction, he can be resurrected again someday! If it makes you feel better, I struggled for a long time over whether or not to have him die, and I literally had tears in my eyes writing it.

Songs that have contributed to the inspiration of this chapter include: "Fallen Leaves" by Billy Talent, "The Ghosts That Haunt Me" by The Crash Test Dummies and "Everybody Hurts" by The Corrs.

**Chapter Nine**

From the moment House had given up the fight to save Chase to the ride home with Wilson, to arriving at Wilson's apartment the diagnostician was silent. His expression was impassive, but Wilson knew better than that. Deep inside of Gregory House his emotions were tearing him apart and the diagnostician's way of dealing with them when there was nothing else was to bury them under a mountain of denial. The problem was that the conflict could only be contained so long before the mountain erupted like a volcano and when it exploded the fallout was self-destructive behaviors of epic proportions. Wilson had tried to talk to House about it as they drove home, but the diagnostician would not be engaged. His friend was worried sick about him.

Cuddy had planted the seed of uncertainty in Wilson's mind about House's stability before Chase died. Now that he was gone, the oncologist wasn't certain if his friend was going to be able to hold it together. Wilson had been thinking almost non-stop since lunch about the missing Oxycontin Cuddy had told him about. Was it possible that House had somehow swiped the powerful painkillers somewhere along its journey from Pharmacy to Unit 30? He had seemed to be doing so well, but Wilson knew that once an addict, always an addict and battling the yearning for opiates would be a life-long struggle his friend would have to fight. What if House had surrendered already?

If House indeed possessed the meds with the intent of taking them to ease his pain, he would be hiding them. That meant that the two most likely locations would be his office or at home, somewhere in his room. Wilson had gone to House's office straight from the cafeteria and convinced a janitor to unlock it for him. Once inside he searched both the office proper and the adjoining conference room. He hadn't found anything stronger than ibuprofen. It was then that he received word from Cuddy that Chase was on his way in to the ER with House accompanying him and left there to rush downstairs.

That meant House would have had to have brought them home with him. Wilson was with House every second until they arrived home, at which point House had retreated without a word to his room and shut the door. He had tried to keep House from isolating himself that way but when the diagnostician had his mind set on something it was next to impossible to change it. Wilson periodically would pop his head into his friend's room, but each time he saw only one thing: House lying down on his bed on top of the covers, staring up at the ceiling absently. He knew he had to get the nearly catatonic man to open up and start interacting with him, but House wouldn't leave his room. So if the mountain wouldn't come to Mohammed, as they say, Mohammed would go to the mountain. Or was it the other way around? He wasn't sure and it didn't really matter. The point was he was determined to remain around House and try to engage him.

Wilson debated whether or not to call Dr. Nolan in yet. Until he knew for certain that House was in danger, there was really no point in calling the psychiatrist. Wilson had him on speed dial, nonetheless.

He threw together a simple meal of soup and sandwiches and milk. Just as he was about to ladle the soup into two bowls he was interrupted by the ringing of the phone. Wilson debated whether or not he should take the call. Considering that only a handful of people, including the hospital, had his home number, it could be important. He went to the phone.

"This is Wilson," he answered.

"Hello, James. It's Chloe LaSalle. Are you able to speak right now?"

Surprised, he wondered how she got his private number and then realized that she probably obtained it from Cuddy or his personal assistant. He was glad to hear from her.

"Yes," he replied. "The coast is clear."

"I'm calling because I was sitting here at home praying and I was concerned about both of you," she told him. "First of all, how are _you _doing?"

Wilson was pleasantly surprised she had bothered to call on her own time. "I'm okay," he told her. "A little shaken up by what happened to Chase."

"Are you certain it is only a little bit?" She asked, calling him on his answer.

"Okay," Wilson admitted with a sigh. "I'm pretty shaken. I'm stunned. It happened so unexpectedly."

"I understand," she replied. "The sudden death of someone Dr. Chase's age can be very hard to accept. Did you know him very well?"

"Fairly well," he told her. "I know his wife better but Chase and I worked together frequently and I'd like to think I got to know him."

"I'm very sorry for your loss," she told him and he could hear the sincerity in her voice. "Is there anything in particular I can pray about for you?"

Wilson smiled weakly. He wasn't accustomed to hearing that question being asked of him. Prayer wasn't something he thought a lot about. He couldn't think of an answer for himself, but House, on the other hand, needed whatever possible help he could get.

"You can pray for House," the oncologist told her somberly. "He's not dealing with it so well."

"Hmm, I suspected that would be the case. Have you been able to talk it over with him?"

Sighing, Wilson told her, "He's not talking at all. He's in his room, almost catatonic. I will admit that I'm very concerned."

"James," Chloe said, "Greg told me about his addiction and his recent rehabilitation. Do you think he may relapse as a result of this?"

Wilson was amazed. House rarely discussed such personal issues, even with him, and never with people had he just met. The fact that he had opened up to her so quickly was completely unlike his friend. "He told you about that?"

"Yes," she answered. "He told me about many things that had happened in his life."

The oncologist shook his head, astounded. "Forgive me," he said to her, "I'm just a little surprised. House is usually very private about such things, particularly around people who are new to him."

"He was much more open with me than I expected," Chloe admitted. "I got the distinct feeling that he _needed_ to talk about it. I've been told by people that they feel comfortable talking with me, which is good in my line of work."

"You must be _extraordinarily_ easy to talk to," Wilson told her, somehow not surprised by that. "I think that this may in fact cause him to use again. Actually, I'm afraid that he may have relapsed already. There was an incident at the hospital this morning where a quantity of painkillers disappeared and House was seen in the area around the time it happened."

There was a pause before Chloe spoke. "I have some experience with users and I did not see any indication at lunch that Greg was under the influence of anything. He appeared completely sober to me."

Wilson exhaled, feeling some relief upon hearing that. "I hope you're right."

"Me, too. Greg told me that he sees a therapist regularly, _oui_?"

Wilson couldn't help but note to himself how sexy her accent was.

"His psychiatrist from the facility he was in," Wilson confirmed. "I was debating whether or not to contact him about this."

"I believe that would be very wise," Chloe encouraged him strongly. "He has been working with Greg and his insight may be essential in this situation. It is better to err on the side of safety here."

"You're right," Wilson told her, nodding. "I'll call him right away."

"Good. James?"

"Yes?"

"Make certain that you take care of yourself, as well," Chloe told him. "You know how the flight attendants on an aircraft will say that in an emergency, parents must first put on their oxygen masks before helping their children to put on theirs?"

"Yes?" he answered, rubbing an eye tiredly.

"That applies to you has well," the chaplain asserted. "You cannot help Greg if you neglect your own wellbeing. Take care of yourself."

Her concern for him was very encouraging. "I will," he assured her.

"I will be praying for both of you and if there is anything I can do to help, please feel free to call no matter what time it is. Do you have something to write on? I will give you my home and cell phone numbers."

Wilson found a pen and pad of paper, jotting the numbers down as she gave them to him. "Got it," he told her. "About lunch tomorrow--."

"We'll play it by ear," she told him.

"Thank you, Chloe," he told her sincerely. "I appreciate your call."

"God bless both of you," Chloe wished him. "Bye."

"Bye," he returned and hung up. She was an extraordinary person, he decided, smiling to himself. He couldn't wait for the opportunity to get to know her better.

Wilson returned to the kitchen and dished out the food.

"Dinner's served," he announced as he entered House's bedroom and set the tray of food down on the top of a dresser. House remained motionless on the bed, not acknowledging Wilson's presence with so much as a glance in his direction.

"Just what the doctor ordered," Wilson told him, "Chicken soup, my grandmother's recipe. Sit up and eat while it's still hot."

House didn't budge and inch. Wilson sighed, seating himself on the edge of House's bed looking down at the older man.

"It's not your fault," the oncologist told him quietly. "I know that somewhere in that mysterious and convoluted mind of yours you've got yourself convinced that it is, but you're wrong."

House finally showed a sign of life as his eyes moved from an indiscriminate spot on the ceiling to Wilson. He exhaled through his nose. "I know." He acknowledged softly, and he returned his eyes to the ceiling. "I can't stop thinking about what Cameron said."

"Cameron was wrong," Wilson asserted. "She was hurt and angry and not thinking straight when she blamed you for Chase's choices. You're not responsible for anyone else's actions but your own, which is a good thing because you've got more of them to deal with than anyone else I know."

House said nothing in response to that.

"House," Wilson said after a moment or two, "I don't know if this is a good time or not, but there's something I need to talk with you about, something serious."

House looked at him again, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. "You're leaving me for another man?"

Wilson smiled in relief at the sarcasm. He put on a mock-serious face. "Yes, I'm afraid I am. The magic between us is gone."

House rolled to a sitting position and feigned being hurt. "What does _he_ have that _I_ don't?"

Wilson shook his head. "Bigger shoes, larger bank account."

"Size isn't everything!" House exclaimed in horror, barely restraining a grin.

Wilson chuckled, shaking his head and then sobering. "I'm serious. It's important."

House's eyes scanned the oncologist's face and deciding that he meant it, nodded.

"What's up?" he asked. "If this is about my lunch date with Chloe I can explain--."

"No," Wilson cut him off, frowning. "Don't worry--I'll deal with you later concerning that! It's something else."

House simply stared at Wilson, waiting for him to explain further. The oncologist couldn't help but feel like he was the man's father about to reprimand him for being caught smoking behind the garage with his friends.

"While you were having lunch with _my_ Goddess," Wilson began, "I had a disturbing conversation with Cuddy."

"Every conversation with Cuddy is disturbing," House quipped, making a sour face.

Wilson ignored the comment. He took a deep breath and got straight to the point. "She told me that this morning a unit order of Oxycontin disappeared. Pharmacy has records that they dispensed it with the other drugs, Unit 30 claims it never made it to them. She also said that you were spotted down at Pharmacy right around the time the drugs disappeared." He stopped short of actually making the accusation. He felt sick to his stomach.

House looked down at his hands which were folded in his lap. He stayed that way for two or three seconds and then, without looking up, he said calmly, "You think I took them."

Wilson sighed and asked, "Did you?"

House looked up at the oncologist. The intensity of the look Wilson received made him want to look away but he forced himself not to do that. The diagnostician's blue eyes were unreadable.

"What do you think?" was his response. There was an edge to his voice now.

"Why won't you answer the question?" Wilson said, answering the question with a question.

House shook his head and smiled bitterly, "Because it doesn't matter what I say, does it? You've already concluded that I have so if I deny it you'll assume I'm lying."

Wilson shook his head in negation. "I just want to know the truth."

House rubbed his bearded face thoughtfully. Wilson wished he could read his mind and know what he was thinking just then. He wanted to believe House, but he wasn't sure he could. He remembered what Dr. Nolan had told him when arrangements were being made for House to move in with the oncologist upon his release from Mayfield. The psychiatrist said that there was a surefire sign to look for to know for certain that an addict was lying to you—if you saw his lips moving. Wilson had objected to the spirit of that statement at the time, and now he hoped Nolan was wrong but he just didn't know for certain.

"Okay," House responded quickly, "the truth…No. I didn't. I didn't have a thing to do with it. Believe me?"

No matter how much he wanted to believe him, Wilson still had his doubts. House had lied to him before, had stolen painkillers before. The right words simply eluded him.

"See?" House said when Wilson had failed to answer him. "What hoops do I have to jump through _now_ to convince you that I'm telling the truth? You want me to piss in a cup? Will _that_ suffice?" His words were thickly laced with resentment.

There was only one thing Wilson could say. "Yes." He felt like a louse.

House stood up, grabbing his cane from where it leaned against the headboard of the bed. He stared daggers down at Wilson; every muscle in his body was tense and his jaw was set. Wilson knew what his body language was screaming at that moment: 'you're pushing too far!' The older man was enraged and could explode any second at the slightest provocation.

"Go to hell!" he spat at the oncologist in contempt and then strode angrily out of the room. Wilson jumped to his feet and rushed after him. House headed straight to the front door. He grabbed his jacket without taking the time to put it on and yanked the door open.

Wilson caught up to him and tried to block his friend's way. "Where are you going?"

"Out!" was the angry reply. "Get out of my way!"

"If you're telling me the truth, why are you throwing a fit at taking a drug test to prove it?" Wilson shot back. He couldn't let House leave the apartment in his current state of mind. God only knew what the raging man would do if he was alone. "If you haven't used then you have nothing to fear!"

House tried to plow his way straight through Wilson but the younger man held his own, refusing to back down. "I can't let you leave like this," the oncologist insisted. "I'm your friend, House! I can't just stand by and watch you flush your life down the toilet again! If you leave I have no choice but to call Nolan!"

Wilson didn't see the right cross coming for his face until it was too late to duck. It connected solidly, sending a bone-crunching shockwave that propelled him backwards out of the door. Pain shot through his jaw and straight to his brain, nearly knocking him unconscious. He felt himself slam against the corridor wall with another bolt of pain, this time originating from the back of his head. He slid down the wall until he landed on his buttocks on the floor. It left him dazed long enough for House to march past him and hurry down the stairwell towards the lobby. When his brain stopped rattling inside his skull and he regained his senses, Wilson reached automatically for his face in agony. He touched his mouth with his hand and then drew it back to see it covered in blood from the deep cut in his lower lip caused by his upper incisors. He tried to move his jaw but stopped immediately as pain shot up the nerves in his face.

_Sonofabitch! That god damned sonofabitch! _Wilson's mind screamed as he forced himself unsteadily to his feet. A wave of dizziness hit him and he had to wait for it to subside before he could propel himself back into his apartment. Why the hell did he try to help that bastard? Why did he put up with the rages and the depression and the violent outbursts for a man who didn't appreciate it one little bit? Let him go! Let him go and fill himself full of drugs and overdose in some gutter or back alley somewhere and throw his life away if that's what he wanted! Wilson didn't care! He'd had enough!

Wilson stumbled to his sofa and fell onto it. His jaw throbbed with every heartbeat and he wondered if House had broken it. His head ached mercilessly and he still felt dazed. He sat there in silence for a long time as he waited for his mind to clear and his heartbeat to slow down. He took several deep breaths and allowed his wrath to dissipate to a level where he could act reasonably. His mind was spinning with disjointed thoughts and images that eventually subsided along with his anger.

The oncologist knew that no matter how angry he was, he couldn't sit back and allow House to be out there alone in his current state. As disgusted as he was and as strong as the pain was in his jaw, he knew that he _did_ care. Wilson wasn't certain why he did, but he did. He told himself that House was bent on self-destruction and if he didn't do something to stop his friend he could, indeed, end up hurting himself. Wilson reminded himself that House was sick and needed help. Once the diagnostician was back on his feet again, was okay and in his right mind, _then_ he could kick the shit out of him for this _and_ for undercutting him with Chloe.

Wilson slowly pulled himself to a sitting position and then, when he was certain he wasn't going to end up back on the floor, he pulled himself to his feet. He tried opening and closing his mouth. It was excruciatingly painful to do it, but he was able. His jaw probably wasn't broken like he had first suspected. He went to the phone and pushed the speed-dial button for Dr. Nolan's personal cell phone number which he had provided for House and Wilson in case of an emergency outside of regular office hours. It was a privilege only a select few of the psychiatrist's patients were given.

The line only rang once before it was picked up.

"Hello, this is Nolan," a deep, smooth voice answered.

"Doctor," Wilson said, slurring very slightly. "This is Dr. James Wilson."

The oncologist didn't have to say anything more. The psychiatrist knew who he was talking to and about whom.

"Tell me what happened," Nolan instructed calmly. "Is House in trouble?"

"I think he is," Wilson confessed and then relayed to Nolan the events of the day and House's current state of mind. The therapist listened without interrupting until Wilson was finished his account.

"Has he used?" Nolan asked. Wilson knew that if House had or did it would breach the safety contract he had with the therapist and he would be immediately hospitalized again.

"I don't know for certain," Wilson admitted, "He denied it when I asked him but when I said that I wanted him to submit to a drug test to prove it, he went ballistic. I tried to stop him from storming out of the apartment and that's when he hit me and nearly knocked me cold. By the time I was able to think he was already gone. Doctor, when he's like this he is capable of harming himself very badly. I'm don't know what I should be doing now."

"Do you have any idea where he might go?" was Nolan's next question. "Might he be going to his apartment?"

Wilson considered that possibility but quickly dismissed it. "I don't think so," he replied. "We left his motorcycle at the hospital when I drove him home and he didn't take his car keys with him—they're still by the door. I think he's walking and with his bad leg he won't be able to get very far by foot. His apartment is too far away, as is the hospital. He could hail a taxi or catch the bus, though. He may be heading for a bar or liquor store."

House had a very small network of that he could turn to for help, if House were the type of person who would normally seek out someone for help, which he wasn't. The most likely thing he would do was to seek out self-destruction, and there were so many possibilities as far as that was concerned. Wilson doubted that he would go to Cuddy's considering the way things were between the two of them. In the past he would go to the bar to get himself thoroughly drunk or hole up in his apartment all alone and drug himself up with Vicodin. There were, however, those times his self-destructive acts flirted with death in more creative ways and on a few occasions he had almost succeeded at killing himself, nearly giving Wilson a heart attack each time.

Nolan exhaled loudly. "First, I need you to try to raise him on his cell phone and any place he might go whether or not it's in walking distance, including his apartment and the hospital. Let the hospital know to be on the lookout for him and to contact you if he shows up there. He may not answer his phone no matter where he is but it's worth trying. Secondly, I need you to call the police and file an emergency missing persons report. If you tell them that he's in danger of harming himself, they'll start a search for him right away. Try calling his Fellows as well to warn them to be on the lookout for him."

"Right," Wilson agreed, cradling his phone between his ear and his shoulder as he put his jacket on. "I'll drive around to see if I can find him walking anywhere."

"No!" Nolan said quickly. "I want you to stay right where you are in case he decides to come back and is in need of help."

"I can't just sit around here and do _nothing_ when my best friend is out there somewhere in grave danger!" Wilson argued incredulously. There was no way he wasn't going to be actively involved in any search for House.

"The police will tell you the same thing," the psychiatrist told him. "They'll need you to be available to answer questions and someone must stay there in case he comes home and to act as a central hub for communications." When Wilson didn't respond right away, Nolan said, "Dr. Wilson? Are you still there?"

"Yeah," Wilson told him quietly.

"Please contact me immediately when you know anything more," Nolan told him and then added. "Are _you_ alright?"

_Am _I_ alright? _Wilson asked himself, feeling his panic level rising with every minute that passed. _No_, he thought honestly, _I'm not alright—but I _have_ to be until I know that House is safe._ He knew that would have to be good enough.

"Yeah," he lied. "I'm okay. Thank you, Doctor. I'll call you as soon as I know anything more."

"Alright," Nolan acknowledged.

Wilson hung up and stared at the cell phone in his hand. How could he stay there uselessly and wait to find out from somebody else whether House was safe or dead? Nolan was right, however. Someone had to stay at his apartment. He tried to think of who he could call to come over and wait there so he could join the search. His options were limited. House's remaining ducklings were likely dealing with their own feelings concerning Chase or on-call at the hospital working on their current case. If they were free and willing, he hoped to have Foreman and Taub out searching as well.

He called the police, and filed the report with them, answering cursory questions. As Nolan had predicted, they wanted a contact to remain there to relay information and be there if House returned home. When he got off the phone, he sighed in an attempt to release some of his anxiety and then went to the kitchen. He picked up the note pad he had used earlier and stared at the numbers written on it. Hesitating for only a fraction of a second, he entered one of the numbers into his phone. The call was answered on the first ring.

"Hi, Chloe?" he said into the phone. "Is it too soon to take you up on your offer?"

* * *

Water from the sky landed in large drops on the back of his neck and ran in rivulets down his back underneath the protection of his shirt and jacket; the coldness of them brought out gooseflesh. He pulled the jacket collar up in an effort to block out the steady rain but it made very little difference. His wet hair contributed enough water to soak his back. It didn't bother him too much; he had more pressing matters on his mind.

It was very dark out despite the odd streetlight that shone periodically downward to illuminate the sidewalk beneath House's feet and cane; Princeton, as part of its contribution to the reduction of CO2 emissions from coal burning power generation began to reduce the intensity of the light and only lit one lamp out of every three, significantly reducing visibility at night. That and the thick cloud cover that blocked out the moonlight, made the streets very dark and dangerous. He wasn't concerned about being mugged; he had a weapon and he knew how to wield it. House stepped on fallen leaves scattered on the ground but they made no crunchy sound because they were sopping wet. Traffic was extremely light which provided a quiet privacy he appreciated as he limped to his destination. The darker and quieter it was, the easier it was for him to move unnoticed.

House hadn't taken his car because all any cop he drove past would have to do was run the make and model of his car and his plate to confirm who he was and try to 'protect him from himself' by taking him into custody and bringing him in to the station, where he would soon be picked up by the men with the butterfly nets and be carted back to Mayfield, effectively ending his medical career for good. He knew that Wilson would have discovered he was missing already and would have called Nolan, whom would have advised the oncologist to report House to the police as a missing person who was potentially a danger to himself, which would provide the necessary conditions to allow the authorities to legally take him against his will to a treatment center for psychiatric evaluation.

Even in the dark, however, the dismal weather and black skeletal trees visible against a charcoal colored sky reminded him of childhood nightmares where he would find himself all alone in an ancient cemetery when, suddenly, the long-dead skeletal residents would emerge from their graves and descend upon him like hungry jackals attacking the abandoned carcass of a large African ruminant. As they moved toward him he could hear their bones clicking against each other in the silent darkness. He often woke up screaming for his mother in the middle of the night, lying in his urine-soaked sheets. She would come to him and comfort him, urging him to stop screaming so that he didn't awaken his father and face being disciplined. Then his mother would help him clean up; he would don dry pajamas as she stripped the bedding off of his mattress to reveal the vinyl cover she kept underneath the linen sheets. Finally, she would put fresh bedding over that; his mother would remind him never to mention the fact that she protected his mattress lest Dad find out and get angry that his seven-year old son was a "coward and a sissy" that wet his bed. She would tuck him into bed, caress his hair lovingly until he was relaxed enough to go back to sleep, kiss him goodnight all over again and then leave with the soiled bedding to throw it into the washing machine before his father had a chance to see it.

It was fascinating what sort of external stimuli would trigger such vivid memories, drawing them out of the deep crevasses of his mind where he had stuffed them away, hoping never to have to acknowledge them again. The brain was an incredible machine, capable of so many things and yet so vulnerable to the ravages of age, damage, poisons and disease. He wanted to soak his particular model with alcohol until it was so pickled he would stop thinking about his day and his life in general. He chose not to because he needed to be thinking clearly enough to achieve his goal and vindicate himself at the same time. If he simply told the truth no one would believe him and he would be convicted based on circumstantial evidence alone. He had to fix it so that they would see the proof with their own eyes when he told them what really happened.

House wanted to turn to his best friend for help but he couldn't, at least this time, trust him. His friend, though well-intentioned, would consider his request a diversion from the truth and turn him in 'for his own good'. The friend might even believe that he was delusional as a result of the drugs he didn't take. House refused to give a urine sample because he didn't want, for the rest of his life, to have to prove his innocence every time some idiot misplaced or stole meds at the hospital. He knew that he had earned others' mistrust in the past but that was then. This was now. Wilson had to start having more faith in him and his desire to remain drug-free. House didn't want to go back to where he was before…especially since detox was such a bitch.

The rain seemed to be tapering off, much to his relief. House's leg was beginning to really hurt. Pain from his thigh radiated sharply up into his hip and down his leg to his toes. On a ten point scale of intensity, one being next to no pain and ten being the most, his thigh was a solid seven. House knew before he had left Wilson's that it would hurt like hell so he decided to head for the closest source of help and transportation. He wasn't certain that it was going to work, but he was going to try, regardless. He hadn't taken his car because on foot he had more options for movement. If he thought he was being followed, House could dodge into a yard, turn down an alley or cut across a field to escape. It was more difficult to do that in a car. The only drawback was the pain and the fact that it kept him from going any significant distance.

He knew that if he sought out help from any member of his team for help, they would have already been called by Wilson and would turn him in. So would Cuddy. Besides, they all lived too far away. House chose the person he did because of the distance he had to walk to get there and that he felt reasonably certain that person would give him a fair shake and not squeal until he had proven his innocence.

House was ninety-nine percent positive he knew where the Oxycontin was, and he knew who had taken it. The thief, however, was not _him_. He was close now. He walked down the quiet residential street about a mile and a half from Wilson's apartment, checking carefully the house numbers as he passed each residence. When he came upon number 37, he stopped and scoped out the house—an older but well-maintained two story in a large yard surrounded by a picket fence and accompanied by a detached single-car garage painted in the same off-white as the home and lying beside the house on the plot instead of behind. A long sidewalk led up to the steps and the front door at the end. There were lights on within, but the drapes were drawn so he couldn't see details through the windows. On the street out front of the residence was a dark sedan, a Chrysler of some kind. It all looked quaintly middle-class.

With the pain in his leg intensifying with each step he took, the diagnostician was glad he didn't have to go any further and the best part was that Chloe LaSalle still appeared to be home and not at her church as she had told him in the restaurant. If she had left already he would have waited until she returned home. Entering through the gate of the fence, he limped up the sidewalk to the front door, hoping that he wasn't making a big mistake.


	10. Chapter 10

**Reconciliations: A House M.D. Story**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its concept, current story line and characters past and current are the property of David Shore and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

A/N: Isn't it frustrating when a chapter ends with uncertainty, leaving you wondering what on earth is going to happen and having to wait for the next chapter to be published to find out? So do I…but I know it keeps me reading and that's the whole point. Thank you for continuing to follow along and I hope that each chapter makes you need to read the next! Enjoy!

Songs that helped inspire this chapter include: "Your Love is Just a Lie" by Simple Plan, "It Will Be Me" by Faith Hill.

**Chapter Ten**

"I really appreciate this, Wendy," Chloe said to the older woman. The chaplain was writing down the last of the instructions she was leaving with her pastor's wife whom had agreed to stay in the house with Sara while she was out. Sara was thirteen and was a little incensed that her mother thought she still needed a babysitter, but Chloe didn't feel comfortable leaving Sara alone for what could amount to be overnight or longer in a new house and new city. Wendy Brand had been more than willing to come over when she heard why Chloe had to leave.

As soon as she had hung up a second time after a conversation with James Wilson Chloe began to look for someone willing to come over at such short notice. The oncologist had told her about Greg's angry exit and the potential danger the diagnostician could be in if he wasn't located as soon as possible. When he asked her if she could come over and stay at his apartment while he and the police hunted for Greg, how could she say no? She couldn't stop thinking about the lunch date she had with Greg and their conversation. She had found herself beginning to care a great deal for the doctor as he opened his heart to her and she could tell by the look in his eyes that the same had been true for him. Never before in her life had she felt such a strong connection with someone in such a short period of time. Chloe was frightened that she wouldn't have another chance to spend that kind of time with him again if she didn't do what she could to help Wilson find him.

"It's not a problem," the older woman assured Chloe as she took the sheet of instructions from her. "I just hope this fellow is found safe and sound."

_So do I_, Chloe thought. _Please God, let Greg be okay_!

Chloe headed for the front door, stopping in the living room to give Sara a kiss good-bye on the forehead.

"Bed at ten, no later," Chloe reminded her daughter after pulling earphones out of her daughter's ears. "Listen to Mrs. Brand. Okay?"

"_Oui, Maman_," Sara said as she inserted her IPod earphones back into her ears.

Putting on her jacket, Chloe grabbed the keys to her van from the silver dish sitting on a half-moon table next to the door.

"I'll call you when I know more," she promised Wendy as she grabbed her purse and slung it over her shoulder. She unbolted the lock and pulled the door open. The rain had stopped for the first time all day. "Bye!"

"Bye," the pastor's wife said and turned to go to the kitchen.

Chloe took one step out, shutting the door behind her and stopped dead in her tracks. Standing at the bottom of the steps stood Greg House, looking up at her. He was soaking wet and the grimace on his face bespoke of the pain he was experiencing. Her heart leapt in her chest. He was alright! But what was he doing outside her door, and how did he know where she lived?

"Hi," he said simply. "Going somewhere?"

Chloe grinned broadly and took the steps down two at a time. Before she knew what she was doing she wrapped her arms around him in a hug. He didn't protest. He tentatively returned the embrace and Chloe couldn't believe how good it felt. She had been asking God all day why she felt feelings for the man that she barely knew, but had received no answer. He smelled so good, not of some kind of cologne or soap but just him. She didn't want to let go but propriety said that she must.

When she withdrew he had a surprised half-smile on his face. Chloe scanned his face, his eyes, trying to reassure herself that he was alright.

"Greg," she said fervently, "I'm so glad to see that you're okay!"

"If I told you that I _wasn't_ okay, will you hug me again?" he asked her, his smile broadening. "What do I get if I tell you I only have a month to live?" He lifted his eyebrows suggestively.

Giving him a little push, Chloe looked at him reproachfully, but the smile remained glued on.

House sobered, stating the obvious, "Wilson told you."

"Yes," Chloe answered. "He called me after you stormed out of his apartment. He said that he was worried that you might have relapsed and in your emotional state may harm yourself. He asked me to come over to his place and wait for you should you return while he went out looking for you. I was on my way there now."

"Did he tell you about the missing Oxycontin?" House pressed further.

Nodding, Chloe studied his face as she asked him carefully, "Did you take it, Greg?"

"No," he told her earnestly, "I didn't. I haven't used, either."

Chloe studied him for a few moments. His eyes were bright and clear and their pupils were appropriately dilated for the low level of light around him; if he was high on an opiod, Chloe knew that his pupils would be constricted and his breathing would be much slower than it was. He didn't appear to be euphoric and she could tell by the way he supported most of the weight of his body on his good leg that he was in pain.

"I believe you," she told him reassuringly. He looked visibly relieved upon hearing that.

"I wish Wilson did," House said, shaking his head in angry disappointment.

"I believe he wants to," Chloe asserted. "Refusing to take a drug test and then punching him wasn't exactly the best way to instill confidence in him, you know. I thought we went over using anger _constructively_." She gave him a little smile to soften her words.

He smirked and shrugged nonchalantly, "My way is faster."

"Uh huh,"Chloe responded, unconvinced. She took his right hand gently and examined it. He winced in reaction to her touch; his knuckles were bruised and beginning to swell. She shook her head, sighing.

"Come inside, Greg," she urged him. "I'll get some ice for that and I can contact James and let him know that you are alright." She turned to lead him up the steps to the house but he grabbed her hand to stop her.

"No," House objected, not budging from his spot. "You can't contact him, at least not yet. I have to have proof that not only did I _not_ steal the Oxycontin from the hospital, but also that I don't have it in my possession. That's the only way I'll be able to convince Wilson and Cuddy, not to mention the police."

Chloe pondered what he was saying. She was about to tell him that the drug test would do that and then stopped herself. He was correct. All a negative result on a drug test would prove was House hadn't taken anything. It wouldn't prove that he hadn't stolen the Oxycontin and had it stashed away somewhere to use later.

"How will you do that?" She asked him, frowning.

"I know who stole it, and I'm pretty sure I know where it is," He told her confidently.

"Who?" Chloe asked, baffled. How could he know who stole the Oxycontin? Did he see it happen? And if so, why didn't he report it right away and save everybody all of this grief?

House sighed and said without satisfaction, "It was Chase."

Chloe took a step backward, stunned. She studied House's face, looking for some kind of indication that he was joking, but he was as sober as a judge. She watched as the diagnostician reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled something out, hidden in his fist. She couldn't see what it was that he had. She looked at him, puzzled.

"What is that?" she demanded. House took a step towards her and then opened his hand for her to see. Lying in his palm was a single pill. In the dark it was difficult to see exactly what kind of pill it was, but Chloe presumed it was a painkiller. What House was doing with it, she didn't know. Anxiety began to build in her. Had she misjudged him? Had he lied to her about not possessing the missing Oxycontin? She didn't want to believe the worst but she needed to know.

"Let me have a closer look," Chloe told House more calmly than she felt. She held her hand out to him, open and palm up. She watched his face as he carefully deposited the pill in her hand. She pulled her hand back and looked closely at it, but the darkness was hindering her examination.

"I found that next to Chase when we were performing CPR on him at the restaurant," House told her. "It fell out of his pocket and I snatched it up before it was lost."

Chloe looked up at him. He didn't look like he was lying, and yet…she had to be certain. With her free hand she felt for her purse and felt for a side pocket. From it she pulled out her cell phone. House's eyes were suddenly transfixed on it and he was beginning to get nervous.

"What are you doing?" the diagnostician asked her, frowning.

The chaplain didn't answer him. With a flick of her wrist she flipped the phone open. House's entire body seemed to drop in disappointment, his eyes fixed on the phone.

"Shit," he said softly.

* * *

After the long, hot bubble bath Lucas had prepared for her, Cuddy appeared to be much more relaxed. Her mood seemed to have improved considerably. The baby had cooperated with Lucas and had gone to bed without a fuss, which guaranteed him time alone with her mother. Cuddy had emerged from her room wearing a light tank top and pajama pants, her hair up in a terrycloth turban. Lucas had prepared dinner for the two of them, but neither one of them had felt hungry…not for food, that is.

Without much persuasion Cuddy had allowed Lucas to lead her to the bedroom. They slowly undressed each other and re-explored territory they had already covered, now with the knowledge of who liked what where and how. Their lovemaking was wordless, communication being made though looks and touch, gasps and moans of delight.

As they moved closer and closer to a resolution she began to moan louder and cry to him for more, not to stop, don't stop, oh god, more, yes, yes, oh please, yes, more, more…!

Cuddy climaxed and Lucas allowed himself to join her. As her orgasm overwhelmed her she gasped out a name.

It wasn't _his_.

They usually clung to each other after, panting in exhaustion, sweat droplets rolling down their skin. Lucas cut this time short, withdrawing from her and rolling onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. She laid on her back, panting along with him and an intensely satisfied smile on her lips as echoes of her orgasm still rippled through her.

Lucas looked at her out of the corners of his eyes, his lids closed into thin slits. She obviously wasn't aware of what impact it had had on him. Did she even remember saying it? _Greg…!_ Cuddy was oblivious to his reaction, the angry way he clenched his jaw and wadded his hands into white knuckled fists. If she had looked at him she would see the fury in his eyes, the veins bulging at his temples, in his neck, arms, legs and feet because every muscle in his body was tensed, ready to spring his body into action at a moment's notice. She wasn't looking at him. She closed her blue eyes contentedly with no thought to his feelings whatsoever. It was _his_ body that had made love to her, but in her mind she had fantasized about another man: Gregory House.

She had cancelled out every reassurance she had given him that she was over House, that there had never been anything between the diagnostician and her and that there never would be. Her promises that they would move forward together and leave House in the past were voided by a one-syllable word—or name—that was cried out in the throes of ecstasy.

She was soon asleep, snoring softly, completely spent. Cuddy was beautiful, Lucas acknowledged, beautiful but cold, towards him at least. Fleetingly Lucas thought about wrapping his fingers around her lovely neck and squeezing with every ounce of strength in his body, choking the life out of her. Her eyes would flash open in horror, staring up at her lover, her murderer. Her hands would claw at his and her face would turn to pink, to red, and to purple before settling on a deathly shade of blue. Her body would convulse, then twitch, her hands would fall away from his and her heart would beat its last. He would release his stranglehold and behold the work he had done with admiration. It would be a work of art, a masterpiece.

That is, of course, until she didn't show up for work the next day, and the next. Her phone would ring, the answering machine would pick up and record messages that she would never return. Friends and family would begin to panic. Someone would check her home for her and find the door locked. No one would answer. They would break the door down and step inside, calling out her name, going from room to room until they reached the bedroom and found her naked body laying on her bed, motionless and never to move of its own volition again, her lovely neck purple and black and crushed completely. He would be gone, and so would Rachel. No one would ever see or hear from them again. Would Greg House be the one to find her? Would he scream in anguish and pull her corpse into his arms weeping over it in misery? Would he figure out that she died because at an unfortunate moment his name had escaped her lips, condemning her? Would he spend the rest of his miserable life wallowing in guilt knowing that he was the one, in fact, who killed her without even knowing?

A smile slowly emerged on Lucas' face as he imagined the look on House's face, on everyone's faces. If only….

Lucas sighed and rolled out of bed, careful not to awaken sleeping beauty. He dressed and crept out of her room, closing the door. He knew he couldn't bring himself to personally wreak vengeance on her for her indiscretion. He loved her, after all.

No. He had something much more satisfying in mind and it involved his nemesis. House will suffer and because of his suffering, Cuddy will suffer, too. Lucas will punish her appropriately and then he will forgive her and she will be grateful for his mercy and they will end up very happy together. Why will he be so magnanimous? He loved a happy ending, that's why.

As he left he heard her telephone ring. He closed the front door behind him silently.

* * *

Gregory House watched with apprehension as Chloe reached into her purse and pulled out her cell phone.

"What are you doing?" he asked her apprehensively. He felt his heart fall into his stomach. She didn't really believe him. The pill convinced her that he was lying to her about not possessing the Oxycontin. She was going to turn him in.

He considered snatching the phone away from her before she could make a call. He could, alternately, take off as fast as a man with a gimp leg and a cane could run and try to hide from the cops when they descended on Chloe's yard and began hunting the dark spaces and bushes for him. He could….

His thoughts stopped short as she flipped the phone on, activating it. He felt as if he was going to have a heart attack.

"Shit," he said softly.

House readied himself to pounce but held back when he saw Chloe direct the light emanating from the LCD display onto the pill in her hand; she rolled the tablet around under the light. When she closed the phone again and stuck it back into her purse, he exhaled in relief and his body relaxed. She wasn't going to betray him after all.

She looked up at him with her big, beautiful eyes and smirked, shaking her head.

"This isn't Oxycontin," Chloe told him with certainty. "It's Percocet. Oxycontin is round and brown and imprinted with 'O-C' and '30'. This is blue and it says right on it 'Percocet'."

House looked at her in wonder. How did she know what Oxycontin 30 milligram tablets looked like? She would only know if she had seen them before. It was then that he remembered that she had nearly been killed and would have been prescribed painkillers during her convalescence.

"You're right," House told her. "It's still an opiate and Chase had it on his person. He was of excellent health and would have no need for pain relief, which means he was taking Percocet for the high. My drug of choice was Vicodin but in a pinch any opiate would do. Oxycontin is an excellent example." He reached to retrieve the pill from her but Chloe pocketed it instead.

"I'll just keep it," she told him knowingly in a soft and non-threatening tone.

House sighed, nodding. It had been hard to resist the urge to pop the tablet into his mouth as the pain in his leg increased during his walk. Just knowing that the Percocet was there had been both a strange kind of comfort and a powerful source of temptation. He knew that she believed him, so he wasn't offended by her keeping the pill.

"So," Chloe said, "Your theory is that Dr. Chase was not only self-medicating with alcohol but with drugs as well, hence the Percocet, and that he stole the Oxycontin when he had the opportunity to do so to feed his own needs. It's logical, I suppose. How do you know that he had the opportunity to do it?"

"I had sent him and Foreman to run some tests and make certain the lab got to processing them immediately," House told her. "That was before they were to go on a field trip for me. The lab and Pharmacy are on the same floor, and he would have been down there just before I went down to get a bottle of Aspirin for my headache. He had access, time, opportunity and motive. Since he didn't have the Oxycontin on him at the restaurant, it's highly likely he had it stored somewhere he was able to get to after he stole it and before he went with Foreman. I believe it's either in his locker at the hospital, where he would have stopped to grab his jacket before leaving on the assignment, or in his car, which is still parked in the restaurant parking lot."

"If it hasn't been towed," Chloe pointed out only to receive a negative shake of the head from the diagnostician.

"Unlikely. The bar and grill is still open as we speak so it wouldn't have been noticed as being out of place next to the other cars coming and leaving throughout the day."

Chloe took a deep breath through her nose and exhaled it through her mouth. House could see her processing the information in her lovely head. It was actually the first chance he had to notice her appearance since arriving. She wore her chocolate brown hair down now, and it flowed gracefully to just below her shoulders in loose, gentle curls, gracing her face like an expensive frame around a a portrait. She had changed from her blouse and skirt into a casual shirt he could see peeking above the neckline of her jacket and a pair of dark straight-legged jeans that hugged her hips in the most delightful way. Sneakers finished the look. He marveled at how she could make anything look sexy.

"So I'm guessing that you want to check out whether your theory is correct," Chloe concluded, "and once you've found the Oxycontin in Chase's locker or car, then let everyone come and see for themselves, _Oui_?"

He smirked with amusement, "Oui."

"And you are here to elicit my help in doing it because you knew you could trust me," Chloe concluded. "Why can you not call James and propose the same thing to him?"

House sighed, looking down at his feet and then back to her, "I want to be certain I haven't made any mistakes before I want to draw him into it."

Chloe nodded, obviously expecting the explanation he gave her. She forced him to look her in the eye as she said, "As long as it is not illegal or immoral I will help you."

House winced and asked, "How illegal are we talking--misdemeanor illegal or felony illegal?"

She glared at him in warning. "Greg…."

"I'll do the illegal part," he assured her quickly. "You only have to help me get there and be a lookout."

Chloe gave him a suspicious frown. "Isn't that called 'aiding and abetting'?"

House shrugged in feigned ignorance. "I don't know. I'm a doctor, not a lawyer. Will you do it?" _Please_? He added under his breath. The expression on her face was soft and pensive. He sensed that she wanted to help him but her moral compass was getting in the way. If she could find some way to appease her conscience, he knew she would agree.

It took her an intolerably long time to give him an answer. When she did, it was with a crooked half-smile and a condition attached.

"I'll only do it if you agree to call James and let him know that you are alright," Chloe told him firmly. "He needs to know that you are alive and sober, Greg; he is angry at you right now but he is also very worried. That way he will be able to call off the search and the fact that you were responsible enough to call him will only work in your favor. I will vouch for you if necessary, but you must be the one to talk to him. Those are my conditions. Take it or leave it."

She had the fire in her eyes and her jaw was set. House loved it. She was adorable and he wanted her _so_ badly.

"Deal," he agreed, rolling his eyes in mock-disdain and then smirking with amusement. She couldn't resist giving him a small smile. She took out her cell phone again and dialed Wilson's number before handing it over to him. Reluctantly he raised it to his ear. It was answered almost immediately.

"Hello, Chloe?" Wilson's voice came across sounding panicked. _Ah, Wilson_, House thought ruefully, _you need to learn to relax_.

"She's got a nicer ass," House said in response, waiting for Chloe to react. If she was blushing he couldn't tell but the look of reproach she gave him was good enough.

"House!" Wilson nearly shouted. "What are you doing on Chloe's phone? Are you alright?"

House rolled his eyes. "I'm on her phone because she handed it to me and if I were dead, talking would be a little difficult. Are we playing a game or are you just fond of engaging your mouth before your brain?"

"You're okay," Wilson agreed wearily. "Where are you? Is Chloe there with you?"

The diagnostician exhaled impatiently. "I must have hit you harder than I thought. How about I hang up and you can call me back when you're conscious?" he retorted snarkily.

"I've been worried sick!" Wilson told him reproachfully. "I called Nolan and the police. There's a search out for you right now, did you know that?"

"Aw, and I thought you didn't care."

Chloe cleared her throat loudly and gave House a 'quit screwing around and get to the point' look. House wondered if she knew how beautiful she was when she was angry. Make-up sex with her had to be fun, he decided.

"Chloe insisted I call you to assure you that I'm safe and sober," House said into the phone obligingly. He looked to Chloe for approval like a puppy to its master. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth but she didn't give him anything more. "I was all along," he added in frustration.

"And punching me was a sign of sober rationality," Wilson retorted sarcastically. "I can't believe I didn't see that."

House looked at Chloe again and pointed to the phone, pouting. "See, Mom, I told you he wouldn't believe me."

She rolled her eyes and held her hand out. "Give me the phone," she ordered.

"Now you've done it, you've made her mad," House taunted into the phone before she snatched it away from him.

"Hello?" Wilson could be heard saying as the device changed hands. Chloe put the phone to her ear. House smiled with self-satisfaction. He could only hear half of the conversation but was able to piece it together fairly well.

"Hello, James, it's Chloe…Yes, I'm fine…no, I was on my way out the door on my way to your place when he showed…Well, he's in some pain from his leg…what? Oh, no, no I think he will be fine once he puts it up with a heating pad…James, I was a clinical psychologist before I went to seminary and I know what to look for. Greg is not using and I believe he genuinely is innocent of taking those drugs…True, but he wasn't the only person in the area when the meds went missing and it's not even known where it was between Pharmacy and the unit that the Oxycontin went missing…yes, he was. He told me that he was down there to obtain some aspirin because of his pain…no, I do not think that is a fair assumption…James," Chloe paused, sighing, "We all have made mistakes in the past, haven't we?...that's correct, but just because we did something in the past doesn't mean that we are doomed to repeat it…He does _not_ have the Oxycontin on him, James. I am convinced that he has not relapsed…yes, well," Chloe said, looking at House pointedly, "I'm certain that he is very sorry for hitting you."

House's eyes looked upward and he shrugged noncommittally like a recalcitrant little boy.

"…Well, I believe you can tell Dr. Nolan that everything is under control and that Greg will be contacting him personally…oh, right _now_…or he'll be recalled? I see."

Shaking his head, House knew that the next call would be to his shrink, unless he wanted to be readmitted to Mayfield. _Thanks, Wilson_.

"Well, he has a theory about that," Chloe said into the phone. House alerted, shaking his head. He began to wave her off, mouthing the word 'no' to her emphatically, "but he doesn't want to share it until he can prove it…but that's the point. You didn't take his word for it when he denied having the drugs, so why should he believe that you will believe him when he tells you who he thinks did take them?...Yes, and that's why he wants to prove it first…I believe he does trust you, James. The problem is, he doesn't feel that _you_ trust _him_…you can demonstrate it by taking his word for something until it is proven that you can't…yes, that's it exactly…mmhmm…yes, innocent until proven guilty instead of the other way around…well, he feels that the situation has got to the point that he _has_ to prove it now…I know that, James…I know you do and Greg knows you do, but if you expect him to be a new man, you have to put away your old doubts and start from scratch, and that means trusting him…Alright, yes, and remember to contact the police? I promise that I won't allow him to get into trouble…Alright, one moment."

Chloe held the phone out to House and whispered, "Remember, Greg. Trust must go both ways."

The diagnostician looked at her and nodded. He took the phone.

"I don't know what she told you," House said, "but Chloe and I are eloping and there's nothing you can say to stop us. It's over between you and me, remember? My shoes aren't big enough? Does that ring a bell?"

"House, I overreacted," Wilson admitted. "If you say you're innocent then…I believe you."

"No you don't," House said, rejecting his statement. "Then again, I haven't always given you good reason to."

"So let me help you prove it," the oncologist insisted. "I owe you that much."

The diagnostician looked down at Chloe. He covered the mouthpiece to speak with her privately. "How did you do that? He wants to help me prove my innocence. An hour ago he was acting like a prosecutor."

Chloe shrugged. "Prayer helps. _Trust_ him."

House said into the phone, "Chloe and I are heading to the hospital, but we have to make a pit stop first. I'll meet you in my office in about thirty."

"You got it," Wilson agreed. "I need to have my jaw x-rayed anyway."

"Oh, and Wilson?"House added.

"Yes, House?"

"Chloe wants me to ask you to stand up for us…the flight leaves for Vegas in two hours."

The chaplain back-handed him in the stomach hard enough to knock some wind out of him.

"Did Chloe just hit you?" Wilson asked.

"Yeah," House replied, glaring at her in annoyance and rubbing his abdomen.

"Good," the oncologist told him without sympathy and hung up.

House flipped the phone closed and handed it back to its owner.

"Did I do good?" the diagnostician asked Chloe, a twisted smirk on his face. House really did want her to say yes. She stared at him in disbelief and for a moment House thought she was going to start yelling at him—that is, until she couldn't restrain herself any longer and began to chuckle softly.

"Did your mother actually survive your childhood?" Chloe asked him curiously.

House grinned proudly. "You'll have to meet her someday and swap stories."

Chloe looked away bashfully at that comment. House realized the implication of what he had just said; he wasn't exactly certain why, but he wasn't sorry. If he had his way, it was a distinct possibility.

"James said that Nolan wants you to call him immediately," Chloe advised him. "He said it has something to do with your safety contract? This is Dr. Nolan, your psychiatrist, _oui_?"

"Yes," he told her, pretending to be unconcerned, "I'll call him on our way."

Chloe looked at him doubtfully. "Where is this pit stop you mentioned to James?"

"'Elementary, my dear Dr. LaSalle'," House said and smirked, amusing himself, "To Connolly's Bar and Grill, of course!"


	11. Chapter 11

**Reconciliations: A House M.D. Story**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its concept, current story line and characters past and current are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

A/N: Post-Christmas is almost busier in my home than Pre-Christmas, but I managed to get one more chapter done before the New Year. Please continue to leave comments! I love to read them! I wish to everyone a very Happy New Year-- I hope 2010 brings to you health, happiness and love!

Songs that helped inspire this chapter include, "Nothing Better to Do" by Leann Rimes and "Believe in You" by Amanda Marshall.

**Chapter Eleven**

House was a driver, not a passenger, but the combination of his aching leg and the fact that Chloe's vehicle was a minivan had convinced him to surrender control for the drive to the restaurant. The chaplain had suggested that he sit on the bench seat just behind the front bucket seats so he could put his leg up. Thinking that it was an excellent suggestion, House did so, but elevation alone wasn't going to do much for the horrible pain he felt. He winced audibly a couple of times as they went over railway tracks and a large pothole.

At a red light, Chloe began to dig through her purse for something, pulling out a prescription pill bottle.

"Catch!" she told him as she lightly tossed the bottle over her shoulder. He did so and looked at the label. Naproxen. "You can take that, _oui_?" she asked.

He could indeed, pouring two tablets into his hand. "Yeah," he told her and then swallowed the pills dry, something he had learned to do quite well over the years. "Dysmenorrhea?" He asked her, gently tossing the bottle onto the driver's side bucket seat next to her purse.

"Yes, Chloe answered without a hint of embarrassment, "ever since my miscarriage after being thrown down the stairs. My ob/gyn didn't give me an explanation, just a prescription."

"It's due to muscular scarring of your uterine wall from the D and C that was performed to remove any remaining products of conception following it," House told her matter-of-factly. "Your doctor did a lousy job."

"Good to know," Chloe said dryly, trying to look at him in her rearview mirror. "How common is it?"

"Too common," was his reply. He personally knew two gynecologists who deserved to have their licenses revoked for the shoddy jobs they did. It was far too common for doctors to get away with substandard skills when the system that was supposed to watchdog the competency of surgeons usually served to cover up acts of malpractice instead. She was quiet for a few moments and he wondered what she was thinking. Not being able to see her face made it difficult to guess.

"My doctor told me that there were complications," Chloe said at last. "She said that I will probably never be able to carry another pregnancy past the second trimester. At that time I was very upset but now…well, I really don't think the opportunity to have another child will afford itself to me, so I am fine with it."

House was fine with it too, but he was wise enough not to say so. He wished he could see her lovely face when he spoke with her. Damned leg.

"If you like," Chloe told him after a minute or two of silence in the vehicle, "I can fire up the DVD player for you. The seat backs have screens. I'm afraid I only have Sara's favorites along, however. I can play "Twilight"1 for you, if you like?"

"Horny teenaged vampires?" House said doubtfully. "If you had an NC-17 version, maybe, but…no thanks. You wouldn't happen to have some porn--?"

"No!" Chloe responded quickly. He thought he could almost hear the smirk in her voice. "I'm afraid you're out of luck!"

"Story of my life," House retorted, leaning his head back against the window tiredly. His statement was truthful. He hadn't had much luck, if one believed in such a thing. A tyrannical father, a hit and miss love-life and a gimp leg all added up to bad karma. His luck since returning from Mayfield hadn't been much better, that is, not until the hot little firecracker in the front seat followed him into his office that morning. Perhaps one of the most enticing things about Chloe was that she didn't seem to comprehend how hot she really was, but she certainly had set the diagnostician on fire.

"My Papa used to tell me that we make our own luck," Chloe told him, "by the kind of everyday decisions we make. For the most part I agree with him. We're all given choices and depending upon our decisions we face the repercussions, both good and bad, in our lives. I would only add that sometimes we are also affected by the choices of others and by the intervention of God occasionally. A child who is abused suffers the consequences of someone else's choice to be cruel and violent. They have no say in the matter. However, God can and often does act to protect the innocent from the wicked behaviors of others. When he doesn't, he is there to offer the strength to endure."

"The Universal Principle of Entropy is what is involved," House retorted, shaking his head. "Not God. Allow me to explain--."

"No need," Chloe assured him and then began to quote from memory, "and I quote: 'the Universal Principle of Entropy states that the entropy of an isolated system which is not in equilibrium will tend to increase over time, approaching a maximum value at equilibrium'2. In other words a system, or situation, that is otherwise unaffected by external forces, will move, over time, from a state of order and stability to a state of disorder and chaos until it reaches a point where things cannot become any more disorderly and chaotic—kind of like the neatness of my house with only Sara around. Are you are trying to say that everything in our life starts at a point of peace and stability but over time things get out of control regardless of what God and we do or do not do? That we have absolutely no control over our own fate because we are nothing more than mindless objects behaving according to the laws of the universe?"

_She has a photographic memory_, he observed in wonder. House was once again surprised by her, and he was very rarely surprised by people. She was amazing. Was there nothing she didn't understand? How many people in today's YouTube3 world could state fundamental universal principles off of the top of their heads and actually understand what they meant and apply them to life? How many clinic patients had House treated who were incapable of understanding that an object in motion would remain in motion unless acted upon by an external force…like a child riding in a car without a car seat or seat belt will continue to fly forward until she hits the windshield when her mother, who is driving seventy miles an hour, tries to stop on a dime? Or that grabbing a curling iron by the hot end will result in the burning of one's hands? There were so many idiots in the world that when House met someone who wasn't it surprised him.

"Yeah," he acknowledged, "Something like that."

"That's very fatalistic for an atheist," Chloe commented, shaking her head.

"Theists are fatalistic," House retorted. "Your kind believes that God is in control of everything and has preplanned your lives from conception to grave so all you have to do is blindly obey him and life will be a walk in the park."

"What do you mean by 'your' kind?" Chloe objected quickly. "I am not any particular kind of anything! There are those Christians who subscribe to that way of thinking, which is known as Calvinism, named after the theologian John Calvin who first postulated the idea of Predestination, which simply put, is the belief that before God created everything He already selected those whom would receive God's favor and the salvation won by Christ's redemptive death on the cross, which is called 'Particular Redemption' or 'Limited Atonement' because only those whom God has predestined to be saved are saved by Christ. Such believers therefore extend this to encompass our behaviors and decisions and even the minutia of our lives including what happens to us in every moment of our existence.

"I, however, take issue with such beliefs. I believe in 'General Redemption' or 'Universal Atonement', and that God is omniscient, omnipresent and omnipotent. He has known from the beginning of the universe every single decision we will make, every deed we do and every event that will occur, but because of the principle of free will he allows us to choose all of these things and face the consequences. We are not puppets on strings, forced through life by God. Nor are we simply mindless players compelled to follow preset rules in some circular game God set up and then abandoned to the inevitability of chaos." She paused for a moment and then chuckled softly. "I just realized I was giving a theological lecture to someone who couldn't care less. _Je fais des excuses__4_."

House smiled to himself. Whether or not he agreed with her beliefs, he found it great to be able to talk intelligently with a woman. Most of the women he saw outside of work were usually professionals in an entirely different meaning of the word, the vast majority of whom found it difficult to string together a single coherent sentence, much less engage in philosophical dialogue. That's why he preferred to get down to business rather than actually talk to them.

He pretended to have drifted off to sleep. "Hmm? Huh…What? Did you say something? I think I nodded off."

"I _said_," Chloe replied, speaking more loudly, "that we should pull the van over and do it in the backseat, but you were sleeping and now the mood is gone. What a pity!"

Restraining a laugh, the diagnostician cried, "Damnit, Woman! Next time make sure I'm awake! Any chance it can be rekindled? Please?"

"Sorry," she replied wistfully, "When the mood is gone, it's gone!"

"Tease!" House exclaimed, and was rewarded by her laughter. Making her laugh made him feel…could it be that it actually made him feel _happy_? He wasn't all that familiar with that emotion, but he suspected that it may indeed be what he felt. Chloe was good medicine for him; when he heard her laugh or saw her smile, he forgot all about his leg.

"Do you still have my cell phone?" Chloe asked him after her laughter subsided.

"Yes," he told her. "I like it. I think I'll keep it and add it to my collection of phones I steal from all the women I know."

"You should call your psychiatrist," she reminded him without missing a beat, "before he sends out the men with a strait-jacket with your name on it."

"Yes, Mother."

"I am _not_ your mother," Chloe said drolly.

"A fact for which I am eternally thankful," House told her. "I'm pretty certain a guy would go to hell for wanting to have sex with his mother."

"You're probably right," she agreed. "Call Dr. Nolan."

"Do you nag your daughter this much?" he asked, disgruntled.

"No," Chloe answered. "She listens much better than you do."

House smirked. "Oh, I listen. I just don't obey."

Chloe nodded. "Admitting you have a problem is the first step. _Dial_."

He sighed as if he was being grossly put upon and flipped the phone open. As he dialed from memory Nolan's afterhours number and said each number out loud just to be annoying. It was answered midway through the first ring.

"Nolan."

"House," the diagnostician told him.

"How are you doing?" the psychiatrist asked him immediately.

"Besides feeling like one of the FBI's Ten Most Wanted? Like hell. How are you?" House said, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Concerned about you," Nolan admitted. "Should I be?"

House sighed silently, closing his eyes and lowering his voice. "Honestly? I don't know. It's been an interesting week."

"Tell me what's happening," Nolan told him calmly like he had so many times before.

"I'm riding in the back seat of a minivan while a goddess is driving me back to the hospital where I stand accused of stealing Oxycontin and relapsing."

"Say again?" Nolan sounded confused. "First of all, have you relapsed?"

"Not yet," House told him, "but it's looking more and more attractive all the time. Wilson and Cuddy are convinced that I have. I'd hate not to live up to their expectations."

"How likely is that, Greg?"

House didn't reply. The truth was, if Chloe hadn't believed him and agreed to help he probably would have copped something and would be higher than a kite at that very moment. He longed for the anger, guilt and disappointment to just go away, replaced by the seductive but temporary peace he found in a pill bottle. In a way, she was acting as his Vicodin, keeping him from going over the edge.

"Greg," Nolan said when there was no answer to his question, "Are you still with me?"

"Ask me that later," House told him, breaking his silence. "If I can prove my innocence, you have no need to worry."

"That answer is not enough to assure me that you're going to be safe," Nolan told him plainly. "Do you remember the conditions of the safety contract you signed as a condition of your release from Mayfield? If you're not safe, you need to be honest with me and tell me. We'll need to make arrangements for you to return to the hospital tonight."

"I can't," House told him quietly. "If I go back I can kiss my job and my career good-bye."

"If you start using again," Nolan argued, "you can kiss your mental health, even your life, good-bye. Which would be worse?"

Again, House didn't answer. It wasn't that he didn't have one; he just knew that it was one Nolan wouldn't want to hear. If he lost the ability to practice Medicine, his life wouldn't be worth saving. He breathed heavily into the phone, feeling his anxiety and despair fight to make it to the surface. The last thing he wanted was to have a meltdown right there, in front of Chloe. What woman in her right mind would want anything to do with a basket case?

"Greg," Nolan said very calmly, "Can you tell me what's happening right now? I need you to talk to me. Do you think you can do that?"

House was afraid to open his mouth for fear of what might come out if he were to do so. He simply continued to breathe heavily through his nose. Eventually he managed to utter a simple, "No."

"Greg, are you alone?" the psychiatrist asked him. "You said something about a 'goddess'?"

Finding himself nodding and realizing that Nolan couldn't see that, he answered, "Chloe. She's driving."

"Greg?" Chloe said from the driver's seat, having alerted at the sound of her name. "Did you say something?"

The psychiatrist was talking into his ear at the same time. "Dr. Wilson told me that you were with a Dr. LaSalle…a chaplain? Is that who you're talking about?"

"Yes," House answered. "She's also a psychologist."

"Greg, I want you to give her the phone, alright?" Nolan instructed carefully. "I'd like to speak to her."

House sighed and then lowered his leg off of the seat and shifted his body so he could reach her with the phone and actually see her profile.

"Chloe," he said to get her attention. "He wants to speak with you."

She took the time to turn the minivan onto a side street and park. Chloe took the phone from him and pressed a button which turned on the speakerphone function. He smiled appreciatively and she gave him a warm smile back that surged comfort through him faster than any drug he had ever taken.

"Hello?" she said. "We're on speakerphone."

"Hello, Dr. LaSalle. I'm Dr. Darryl Nolan, Dr. House's therapist."

"Yes," she acknowledged, "Greg has mentioned you. How can I help you, Doctor?"

House noticed that she didn't correct the psychiatrist's use of her title and surname and the formality she used when speaking to him.

"I have concerns for Greg's safety," he admitted to her. "He has been unable to assure me that he will not use or harm himself. Are you familiar with what has been happening today?"

"I am," Chloe told him, turning a little in her seat to face House a little better. The diagnostician was glad to be able to see her face. "I also know that Greg has been accused of things for which there is no evidence I have seen to justify. He is understandably unsettled by the fact that his best friend doesn't believe him when he says that he didn't steal the missing drugs and that he hasn't started using drugs again. I can assure you that I'm looking at him as I speak and I am satisfied that he hasn't taken anything more than some naproxen I gave him for his leg."

"I'm concerned that his sobriety--and even his life --is at risk, Doctor. He signed a Safety Contract with me. I understand that you are a psychologist so you are familiar with these. While talking with him right now he has been unable to answer some of my questions and I've sensed that his emotional state may be seeing an increase in anxiety. Can you confirm this for me?"

House saw Chloe's eyes scan his face and gaze deeply into his eyes, reading him the same way she had done so accurately earlier in the day. She mouthed to him, _Is that true? Are you struggling_? House looked away from her, feeling very uncomfortable. He gave her a single nod in answer.

"Yes," Chloe said, "I can confirm that. I think it's understandable all things considered." She reached and grabbed the hand House had resting on the back of the front passenger seat and held it, squeezing lightly. Her touch was almost more that he could tolerate without falling apart—_almost_.

"In your opinion," Nolan asked her, "do you feel Greg is in danger at this point?"

"In the immediate, no," the chaplain answered. "I believe the primary source of his anxiety at present is the possibility that he may be forced to return to your institution for doing something he hasn't done. We are currently on our way to investigate a theory Greg has that he knows who took the pills and where they may be. I assure you, Doctor, I have no intention of leaving Greg alone right now."

"If he fails to prove his theory, that may change," Nolan advised her.

"If that happens and I believe Greg is in danger," she told him, "I'll drive him to Mayfield tonight myself."

There was a pause before Nolan answered, "I'm holding you to that, Doctor. I would appreciate it if you would keep me updated."

"I will do that," Chloe assured the psychiatrist, giving House's hand another squeeze.

"Greg," Nolan said directly to him, "I need you to promise to cooperate with Dr. LaSalle if she should conclude it's necessary to bring you back to Mayfield."

House looked into Chloe's eyes when he answered. He realized that he trusted her completely.

"I will."

Nolan exhaled. "Very well. I'll be waiting for your call. Good-bye." He hung up and Chloe followed suit.

"Thank you," House said softly.

Chloe nodded and said to him, "Don't make me regret not taking you to the institution right now. You need to stay honest and forthright with me, Greg. Are you going to be alright? No, don't look away from me. I know that you're embarrassed to be seen in a moment of weakness, but don't be. We all need help sometimes. I don't think any less of you and I don't pity you. I expect you to draw on the courage I know you possess—the same courage that you showed when you admitted yourself to Mayfield. I won't carry you or enable you."

She didn't pity him…that meant the most to him. House hated pity. He was determined not to disappoint her trust in him. He didn't want to do anything to hurt her, ever.

"Let's get this done," he told her simply.

Chloe grinned. "How is your leg?"

"Better," House answered. The naproxen had taken enough of the edge off of the pain that he was able to tolerate the rest.

"Good," she said. "Now come, sit up here with me so I don't feel quite so much like your chauffer."

She didn't need to ask twice. Once he was buckled in shotgun they continued their drive. Just being close to Chloe helped him feel calmer. It only took a couple of minutes more to pull into the parking lot of Connoly's Bar and Grill. They were able to park in the last available stall; the restaurant and bar was still busy even though the dinner rush would have been finished for more than an hour. Chase's older model BMW was still sitting where he had parked it that morning, just as House had said it would be.

"How good are you at breaking into cars?" House asked her with a crooked smile.

Chloe gave him a knowing look, "Why would we break in when you have Dr. Chase's keys?"

House frowned. She was entirely too observant to be able to trick easily. He would have to be more creative if he was going to be able to pull practical jokes on her.

"Well, if you want to do things the boring way," the diagnostician griped, pulling the said car keys out of his jacket pocket. Chloe and he climbed out of the minivan and crossed the parking lot to get to the abandoned vehicle. House pressed the lock release on the key fob and heard the expected click.

Chloe took the back seat and House took the front as they searched by the light of the dome lamp for some clue, any clue, that could be used to prove that Chase took the Oxycontin. The floors of the car were littered with fast food containers, Styrofoam coffee cups, discarded receipts and plastic wrappers which all appeared to be recently discarded, but the dashboard and upholstery were spotlessly clean and dust-free. It spoke to House of the recent decline in Chase's behaviors, including the maintenance of order and cleanliness. He knew that such things mattered very little to someone wallowing in guilt and depression.

House pushed the refuse aside and checked under the seats, in the crevasses of the upholstery, in the map slot and glove box. He could see Chloe checking under the front seats from her side and searching the back bench seat.

"I have something, I think," she announced suddenly. He looked over the seat to see her with her hand down the side of the driver's side back seat. Chloe withdrew a large, blue plastic wrapper that appeared to have once bundled something which had been opened carefully so as not to tear it. She pinched a very small portion of it to prevent spreading her fingerprints all over the plastic and in doing so, destroy any other fingerprints or forensic evidence; she held it up for him to see.

House nodded in approval. It was the packaging used by the hospital pharmacy to bundle cards of medication for intrahospital transport. The missing Oxycontin would have been packaged in such a manner. He sighed with relief. It would have been better if she had the actual meds in her hand but the wrapper was the next best thing. The only thing that bothered him was the absence of a sticker and seal on it. Pharmacy clearly labeled all of its bundles with the contents, quantity and recipient I.D. and sealed the wrapper shut with a seal that recorded the date and time of dispensing. He pointed that out to Chloe.

She nodded in acknowledgement and frowned. "That _is_ strange. Could Dr. Chase have removed the labeling so if someone found this he would have plausible deniability?"

"You watch too much TV," House told her, but thinking that she could be right.

"I barely watch any television," Chloe informed him and then confessed, "but one of my guilty pleasures is reading true-crime novels."

"Have you no _shame_?" House asked her mockingly. "Your double life will catch up with you someday."

She stuck her tongue out at him. He couldn't keep himself from grinning.

"I can think of more enjoyable ways you can use that tongue," the diagnostician told her, raising an eyebrow.

_Score_! House said to himself as Chloe's cheeks flushed a deep red and she turned her head away. There was a hint of a smile on her lips that caused House to wonder if she hadn't been thinking the same thing. He wished he could test that hypothesis. Chloe carefully laid the wrapper on the back seat and went back to search deeper into the space in which it was found. House watched her bottom wiggle as she shifted her weight to be able to reach deeper. He sighed wistfully.

"Quit staring at my bottom," she told him without turning around. He shook his head; she had eyes in the back of her head as well.

"You don't really want me to stop, do you?" House asked her coyly. "You're just saying that to make points with the Big Guy upstairs."

"I don't have to make points with him," she retorted.

"So sue me for appreciating part of 'the beauty of the earth'5."

"I'm not going to dignify that with a comment," Chloe told him.

"You just did," House informed her smugly. He enjoyed repartee with her.

"Wait…I think I can feel something…."

Chloe pulled out a handful of pills, examined them briefly, and presented them with a triumphant smile on her face. "_Voila_!" She poured them into the palm of his hand. "There are more down there."

As he looked at them Chloe located her cell phone and activated the camera function, taking a picture of the wrapper. House placed the Oxycontin tablets on the seat next to it and she took a couple more pictures including a close up.

"Let's get this to Wilson," House said to the chaplain. "I'll drive this car to the hospital and meet you there."

Chloe nodded in agreement.

"_Police! What are you doing there_!" a male voice boomed from outside the car, startling both of them. "_Both of you get out of the car, now_!"

House's heart seemed to leap into his throat. Chloe's eyes widened in fear. Ever so slowly they backed out of the vehicle.

"Get your hands up where I can see them!" the voice shouted.

Both House and Chloe obeyed. House saw one of 'Princeton's Finest' move around the front of the BMW to stand on the side of the car opposite the sound of the voice, his service weapon drawn. Once they both were completely out, the cop behind them advanced on House, pushing him against the car and separating the diagnostician's legs with his foot. Cop One then ordered House to put his hands palm down on the roof before holstering his gun and cuffing him. His partner kept his weapon trained on Chloe over the top of the vehicle.

"Move slowly around to the rear of the car," Cop Two directed her and when you get there, stand with your feet apart and your hands on the lid of the trunk. Got it?"

The chaplain nodded and with remarkable calm did as she was told. Cop Two met her there and holstered his gun in order to put handcuffs on her as well.

House looked over at Chloe whose frightened eyes stared back. He knew that they would have a difficult time explaining away the Oxycontin sitting exposed on the back seat. They were in a shit-load of trouble and he was kicking himself for not being more careful, for not anticipating this, for drawing Chloe into all of this. His mind worked away at a solution to their problem, hoping he came up with something before they found themselves behind bars.

1 Twilight ©2008 is the property of Summit Entertainment and Paramount Pictures, based on the novel of the same name by Stephanie Meyer.

2 See Law of Thermodynamics. Wikipedia® is a registered trademark of the Wikimedia Foundation, Inc., a non-profit organization.

3 YouTube™ does not belong to the author.

4 Translation: "I apologize."

5 A quote from the hymn "For the Beauty of the Earth", text by Folliott S. Pierpoint.


	12. Chapter 12

**Reconciliations: A House M.D. Story**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its concept, current story line and characters past and current are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

A/N: Happy 2010, everyone! I hope your holiday season brought you much joy, many presents and absolutely no extra weight whatsoever! Several of you dear readers have expressed to me your appreciation for this story and how it's progressing and your words have touched me deeply! Thank you all!

Songs that helped inspire this chapter include: "Russian Roulette" by Rihanna, "We Will Rock You" by Queen, and "Basket Case" by Green Day.

**Chapter Twelve**

Wilson made his way to Princeton-Plainsboro in near record time; traffic in Princeton after eight o'clock p.m. was light, especially on a weeknight. He was early to meet House and Chloe, he knew, but he wanted to talk with Cuddy before they arrived. Wilson had called the Dean of Medicine immediately after getting off of the phone with House and Chloe, telling her about the conversation he had just had and convincing her that she had to find a babysitter and get down to the hospital a.s.a.p..

The lobby was quiet when he entered; visiting hours ended at eight and the main doors were locked at nine. A few straggling visitors were on their way out for the night and the receptionists at the Information and Admitting Desks were closing up shop as well. He noticed that all was dark in Cuddy's office, meaning that either she hadn't arrived yet or she was already upstairs in House's office. The Oncologist headed straight for the elevator and pressed the up button.

Knots in his stomach the size of fists caused Wilson distress. His day had started off incredibly well by him running into the beautiful Chloe LaSalle but from that point on had quickly degenerated to the point where now he was exhausted, worried, angry and miserable and all he wanted to do was find House safe. That way he could drag him home where he could kick the snot out of the older doctor for scaring the shit out of him yet again. After that Wilson would hang him by the ears overnight for breaking The Code with Chloe. That, and only that, would rescue the day for him.

Wilson arrived at House's office in Diagnostics to find it dark and empty. He tried the door; it was unlocked. He stepped inside and flipped the light switch at the door. What the lights revealed to him was horrifying: The entire room and all of its contents had been ransacked and overturned as if a very isolated F5 tornado had touched down briefly in the middle of the room before ascending back up into the sky and disappearing. Cold wind blew in the open balcony door.

"Oh my god!" Wilson said, in shock. He stepped over the track of vertical blinds that had been torn from its mounting fixtures above the glass wall that separated House's office from the corridor. House's recliner had been overturned and the reading lamp that normally stood next to it had been thrown javelin-like across the room and rested on House's desk, which had been flipped over onto its side and the contents of the drawers dumped out and strewn everywhere. The book and file cases had also been knocked over, their contents spilled out in a giant chaotic mass of paper. House's computer monitor and keyboard had been smashed but nowhere could Wilson see the tower. Finally, House's prized fuzzy softball rested in the seat of the only object in the room that appeared to be untouched—his desk chair. A scalpel had been stabbed through the diameter of the sacred sphere and then it had been staged mockingly so that it couldn't be missed.

Wilson began to hunt for the phone so he could call for Security. He dug under a few books and finally located it but drew his hand back in revulsion before actually touching the phone. It was covered in what appeared to be half-dried blood. He felt terror rise up inside of him because now, for the first time, he actually saw the blood splashed across the papers and books, ceiling and walls. He took a step backwards and felt himself step onto something that seemed to squish away. He gasped, spun around, and saw a bloodied hand connected to an arm that _had_ to be connected to a body hidden beneath the fallen shelving units and spilled out files. For a second Wilson found himself paralyzed with fear; he then sprang into action and began to move debris away and off of the owner of the arm. He struggled alone with the heavy units until he felt some of their weight lessen. Cuddy was suddenly beside him, helping him.

"What happened?" she nearly screamed into his ear.

"I have no idea!" Wilson yelled back. "I just got here and found this!"

Together they managed to lift and push the unit out of the way and then frantically dug through the smaller debris until they exposed the body. Cuddy cried out in horror, her hands flying to her mouth.

Dr. Remy Hadley lay motionlessly in a small pool of her own blood. Her throat had been slashed by what must have been a very sharp knife or a….scalpel. Wilson's eyes darted to the impaled softball on the chair. Tell-tale blood on the shaft of the scalpel and the ball betrayed the location of the offending weapon. He hadn't noticed the blood before that. He fell to his knees beside her, tore off his jacket and then his shirt and pressed the cotton material to the still-bleeding wound on Thirteen's neck. Cuddy was already checking a wrist for a pulse. Not finding one there, she moved to Thirteen's leg and searched for a femoral pulse instead.

"I have a pulse," Cuddy exclaimed, "but it's weak!"

The Dean of Medicine then climbed over the mayhem and stumbled to the office door. She cried out down the corridor towards the nurse's station, "We have an emergency! I need a trauma cart and a stretcher, Stat! Contact the ER and tell them we're bringing in staff!"

Wilson, now with only an undershirt on top, kept pressure on the wound, watching his tan-colored shirt quickly become red with Thirteen's blood; her life was literally seeping out of her and every precious second counted.

"Damnit, where's the cart?" Wilson shouted in anger. He knew that she couldn't afford to lose another ounce of blood if she was to survive. Who the hell had done all of this? Why was it done? There was no question that this was no accident. Someone had deliberately ransacked the office and attacked Thirteen with the scalpel with the obvious intent of killing her—but why? This had to tie in with what was happening with the meds and House somehow, but he had no clue as to where the connection laid. Was someone in House's office looking for something when Thirteen walked in and she was attacked to keep her from revealing who her attacker was and why he—or she—was there in the first place? How did all of this occur without someone seeing or hearing anything? What the _hell_ was going on?!

Wilson heard people entering the office and looked over to see two nurses carrying the trauma cart over the chaos towards him. Behind them were two more staffers with a stretcher and a back-board and a handful of Security personnel arriving on the scene. Cuddy led the way, barking out orders with an efficiency he admired in spite of the fact that she appeared absolutely distraught with the injury of yet another of her staffers in one day.

Working with the nurses, Wilson moved quickly to temporarily bandage the neck slash while an I.V. of fluids was started and an oxygen mask was placed over Thirteen's face. Very carefully Thirteen was positioned on the back-board and secured. At the count of three they lifted Thirteen's limp body onto the stretcher, secured her with straps, laid the oxygen bottle onto the stretcher with her and then carried the stretcher out of the office, setting it down on wheels once they were clear of debris. Wilson and Cuddy ran along side of the stretcher as the orderlies raced it towards the emergency elevator. In minutes they were down in the emergency room, transferring Thirteen to a table in the same bay Chase had died in. The senior doctors backed off to allow the ER staff to take over and do what they did best.

"I can't _believe _this is happening!" Cuddy said to the oncologist, sounding as upset and vulnerable as she had the day House had been shot twice by the husband of one of the diagnostician's patients. The patient had ended up committing suicide, and her husband blamed House, seeking revenge on him for his wife's death. "What is going on?" Cuddy cried. "Has the entire world gone insane?"

Wilson saw how she was hugging herself with blood-covered hands and trembling from head to toe. His own hands were crimson-stained. He put a comforting arm around her shoulder and she leaned into him, un-Cuddy-like. He had no answer to give her; he was just as horrified and bewildered as she was. Everything all came back to House, but it made no sense. House was certainly capable of stealing drugs—he had done it before—but there was no way the diagnostician would cause physical harm to an innocent woman. Obviously he wasn't directly responsible for what happened to Thirteen, if he was responsible at all. It was entirely possible that whoever hit House's office was after House and Thirteen accidently stumbled across them, becoming their victim simply for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Could it be possible the diagnostician was being targeted and framed? If so, who had a motive to do such a thing?

_Perhaps the better question is_, Wilson said to himself as a grim afterthought,_ who_ _hasn't_? As soon as he thought it he wished he hadn't.

Cuddy gently pulled away from Wilson, shaking her head. He could see how she was forcing herself to pull it together. "I have to make contact with the police. They're going to want to ask all of us a lot of questions. Where the hell was Security, or everybody else, when this was happening? Nobody heard anything?" She shook her head again, only this time it was an angry gesture instead of a confused one.

The ER Staffers with Thirteen were suddenly on the move with her. Wilson managed to ascertain that they were rushing her to emergency surgery to repair the wound to her neck before she bled out completely; obviously there was arterial damage involved.

"I'm going to give Chloe a call," Wilson told the Dean of Medicine, "and alert House and her about what has happened."

Cuddy nodded in agreement. "Good idea. Keep me posted, okay?"

"Of course," Wilson answered. "You, too." They walked out of the ER together and parted ways: Cuddy headed to her office to coordinate with hospital security and the police and Wilson headed to his office to make his call. He had to warn House and Chloe that they could be in a great deal of danger.

He was relaxing on his sofa reading a fascinating article in JAMA1 when the phone rang. He was reading to get his mind off of what had happened with Robert Chase. Thoughts of what had happened to his friend had plagued him constantly since he died. Foreman allowed the phone to ring until he finished a paragraph and then laid the magazine aside and answered the phone.

"Hello, Dr Foreman here."

"Eric, it's Cuddy," her familiar voice announced into his ear. Foreman immediately frowned; the Dean of Medicine rarely ever used his first name or called him at home and when she did it always meant that something serious had come up that required his attention.

"Hi…what's wrong?"

"I thought you would want to know right away," Cuddy said and the grim tone of her voice convinced him something terrible had happened. "It's Dr. Hadley. She's been attacked and seriously injured. She's being rushed to surgery right now."

Shock and fear swept over the neurologist. He sat forward in his seat, a thousand horrifying possibilities spinning around in his head. "How…why? What happened?"

"We're not sure, exactly," Cuddy replied. "Wilson found her in House's office. The entire room had been torn apart and she was lying underneath a shelving unit with her throat slashed. You need to get down here right away."

He cursed a string of epithets, jumping to his feet and pulling the phone off of the end table as he did. "I-I'm on my way!" He grabbed the phone base and hung up the receiver and then slammed the entire phone down onto the table.

Foreman didn't waste time with shutting off lamps or turning off the stereo that was playing softly in the background. He grabbed his jacket, wallet and keys and raced out of his condo as quickly as his adrenalin-fueled legs could carry him.

Chris and Rachel Taub were just finishing a late supper. The cosmetic surgeon had spent that time talking about his day at work, focusing on the death of Dr. Chase. He hadn't known the younger doctor long or well, but what he had known about him Taub had liked. He found it difficult to get his mind around everything that had happened in just twenty-four hours. Yesterday at that time of night his wife was giving him the silent treatment because she was upset at his decision to rejoin House's team and reject a less demanding, higher paying job in his specialization. Tonight she sat next to him at their dining room table, her hand holding his comfortingly as she listened to him spilling everything out to her. He looked at her pretty face, which was frowning in concern for him and for what had happened. Taub knew that he didn't deserve her, and any punishment she might mete out to him for going back to PPTH came nowhere near what he deserved for the ways he had hurt her in the past.

Rachel shook her head in dismay. "That's so…sad. What a horrible accident!"

Taub sighed. "I'm not so certain it was an accident."

His wife recoiled in surprise. "You don't think that he overdosed on alcohol on purpose, do you? If you ask me, I'd say he simply kept drinking because after the first couple he wasn't thinking clearly enough to be aware of what was happening to him. If anyone is to blame, it's the bar for serving him that much."

"Chase gave the bartender money to keep the booze flowing before he was too inebriated to know any better," Taub argued skeptically, rising from the table and gathering the empty dishes to take to the kitchen. "He may have been so depressed over losing his wife that he chose to commit suicide, either consciously or subconsciously. I know I'd be in that state of mind if I were in his place."

Rachel joined her husband in clearing the table and followed him into the kitchen. "I don't like to hear you talk that way," she scolded, setting the dishes down on the island next to the sink. Taub set his down and began to scrape them into the garberator.

He shrugged. "It's true," he said. "I'm not saying I would actually act on my feelings but I would certainly consider suicide. I love you, and without you in my life, I'm not certain what I would do." He was being sincere.

Taub was met by Rachel's troubled eyes. She didn't say anything in response but he could see her thinking seriously about what he had said. She began to shoo him away from the sink.

"Go," she told him. "I'll take care of this. Go make yourself a drink and sit down." Rachel spoke gruffly which said to Taub that she had been moved by his confession. He wasn't about to argue; doing dishes was his least favorite chore of them all. He leaned into Rachel and placed a tender kiss on her lips, lingering a moment. There was the hint of a smile on her face but she tried to hide it with another frown.

"I said get out of here," she told him. "You're in my way."

"Okay, okay," he replied, raising his hands slightly in surrender, "I'm outing, I'm outing! Do you want me to fix you something while I'm at it?"

"A sherry would be nice," she answered, now allowing herself a smile.

Taub made his way to the bar in the living room; he grabbed himself a beer from the bar fridge and poured his wife a glass of sherry, taking it to her. He set it down on the counter-height bar in front of her.

"Thank you," Rachel said appreciatively.

"You're welcome," he answered and then headed for the study. He was halfway there when the phone rang. "I'll get it in here!" He called out. Once in the study he answered the phone.

It was Cuddy. She relayed to him what had happened with Thirteen. Taub couldn't believe what he was hearing. He, like everyone else who knew what had occurred, wanted to know what was going on. Cuddy had no answer for him but instead gave him a warning.

"The police are going to want to question everyone associated with both Dr. Hadley and House," the Dean of Medicine told him, "so don't be surprised when you get the call from them--oh, and one more thing."

"What's that?" Taub asked, wondering what further bad news she had to tell him.

"I don't want to worry you unnecessarily," Cuddy answered, "but I think it would be wise to take a few extra…precautions…in wake of this. Until we know what really happened, there's the possibility that this attack could have been directed to a member of House's team on purpose."

"Are you suggesting that someone out there may be targeting me next?" he responded in disbelief. "Who would do such a thing and why?"

"I have no idea," Cuddy answered again, sounding exhausted. "I could be wrong, but I don't think it would hurt to be a little more careful about your and Rachel's safety until we do know."

Taub acknowledged that Cuddy was right about that. He was still in a state of shock when he got off of the phone with her. He startled when Rachel's voice came from right behind him unexpectedly. He spun around to find her standing in the doorway holding a dish towel in her hands.

"Who was it?" she asked him curiously. "Something to do with work? Don't tell me that House wants you to haul your butt in at this time of night!"

Taub exhaled the breath he had been holding. He shook his head in response to her. It wasn't going to be easy to explain this one to her.

"We need to talk," he told her soberly, wrapping his arm around her waist and leading her back to the kitchen.

Wilson hurried to the phone on his desk and dialed Chloe's cell phone number which he had committed to memory. He had to get a hold of her to warn her about what had happened with Thirteen and his own gut telling him that House and she could be in danger of harm. He heard it ring once, twice, three times. A cold chill in the air caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end. A similar chill began to grip at his heart like an icy fist as the line continued to ring without answer: Four, five, six--.

There was the sound of a click and a pop, after which Wilson could hear some shouting and what sounded like shoes scuffling in rocks or dirt, heavy breaths from a variety of sources and cursing from voices he didn't recognize.

"Hello?" Wilson said in alarm, "Chloe? House? Is somebody there?"

There was no answer except for the sounds he thought was sourced by a fight or brawl. In the background he could hear other voices and shouts, but he couldn't make any sense of it and he couldn't pick out any intelligible words. Wilson's heart was pounding in his ears, making it even more difficult to pick out what was happening on the other end. A moment later he heard what sounded like a body falling on the ground with a painful moan that sounded feminine.

Wilson called out, "Chloe? Chloe, is that you? What's going on? Chloe?"

He heard a scream come from nearby the phone and then Chloe's voice came through loud and clear.

"James! James! Are you there?" Her voice was panicked, shaking with fear. She was breathing hard and fast.

"Yes!" he replied, finding himself yelling into the phone. "Chloe, are you alright? What's going on? Where's House?"

"Help me!" Wilson heard the chaplain cry out, "Wilson, we're under att--!" Her words were cut off by the sound of slapping or punching close to the phone, and then a cry in pain from Chloe.

"Chloe!" Wilson called to her, completely terrified by what he was hearing. "What's happening? Where's House? _Chloe_!!"

The sound of a bloodcurdling scream coming from the woman on the other end caused the oncologist's heart to skip several beats. Finally he heard the sound of House's voice come closer and closer to the phone.

"Get your f-----g hands off of her!" Wilson's long time friend nearly screamed and then he heard Chloe screaming as if in excruciating pain. "God damn you! Leave her alone! I'm going to tear your f-----g faces off if either of you touch her again!"

The sound of blows, flesh to flesh, replaced House's voice. Each blow was followed by groans, gasps, short cries in pain.

"House!" Wilson screamed into the phone but there was no acknowledgement and the oncologist wondered if they could even hear him over what was going on. He wanted desperately to run and get help, but how? He had no idea what was really happening on the other end of the line, and he didn't even know where House and Chloe were. He couldn't put the phone down and lose the only contact he had with them! Wilson felt completely helpless.

Chloe was sobbing heavily from a few feet away from the cell phone. He could hear her mumbling something in what sounded like prayer. "O Jesus, mon cher Jesus! Veuillez nous sauver! Nous avons besoin de vous pour nous sauver! Aidez-nous…a nous aider…Dieu de Pere, sil vous plait!"2

That was followed by her crying out in English, "No! No, _don't_!"

The sound of a gun being fired nearly deafened Wilson and he nearly jumped out of his skin, screaming and fumbling the phone. The Oncologist felt his knees buckle and he barely made it to the waste basket before vomiting and vomiting until there was nothing left in his stomach to bring up but acid and bile. He scrambled to his feet, somehow finding the strength to stand.

"My god, my god!" he gasped, stumbling out of his office, trying to make it to the nearest nursing station to use the phone there to call somebody, anybody, for help. Seeing him coming in a panic on unsteady legs, a nurse rushed to meet him, help support him. The look on her face was one of complete astonishment. She had worked at PPTH for over a decade and in all of that time she had never seen Dr. Wilson in such a state of disarray—not even the day Dr. Volakis died.

"Phone…police!" Wilson gasped, still propelling himself towards the station and now receiving aid. "Gunfire. I think they're being shot!"

"Who, Doctor?" the nurse demanded in horror as they reached their destination. "Who is being shot?" She looked helplessly at the charge nurse who pulled out the phone for Wilson without being asked.

The oncologist fumbled with the phone before managing to steady his hands enough to hold onto the receiver and hit the right buttons: Wilson dialed 9-1-1, saying a rare prayer or two of his own as he waited anxiously for someone to answer. He couldn't get the image of House and Chloe lying on the ground in pools of their own blood, dead or dying. He began to dry-retch all over again.

1 JAMA is an abbreviation for The Journal of the American Medical Association, a professional periodical.

2 Translation: "Oh Jesus, my dear Jesus! Please rescue us! We need you to save us! Help us…help us…Father God, please!"


	13. Chapter 13

**Reconciliations: A House M.D. Story**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its concept, current story line and characters past and current are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

A/N: I listened to the song "Monster" performed by Skillet for the first time this past week and was amazed how closely it described what I was envisioning for this chapter, as you will see. Often I'll hear a piece of music that will provide me a springboard, so to speak, from which my imagination can take flight, but with "Monster" it was like the lyricist(s) were reading my mind from their future. I have always found inspiration for writing from music, both vocal and instrumental, which is, I suppose, my personal Muse.

Songs that helped inspire this chapter include: "I Won't Back Down" by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, "Monster" by Skillet and "All You Got" by TrueVibe.

**Chapter Thirteen**

Cop Two began to pat Chloe down as she stood, handcuffed, against Chase's BMW. She cringed in outrage. There was no way it was appropriate for a woman to be searched by a male police officer. She glanced at House who stood only a couple of feet away, handcuffed himself.

"Hey!" he shouted angrily at Cop Two but was ignored. The diagnostician made a move in her direction as if to stop Cop Two but he was quickly yanked back by the police officer searching him.

"Greg!" Chloe said to him sharply, shaking her head. "It's not worth it!"

"Like hell it's not!" House exclaimed, only to have Cop One pull him back and then slam him back into the car angrily.

"Shut-up, asshole!" he said to the diagnostician, "Or I'll blow your head off!"

It came as a revelation to Chloe that these were not your ordinary cops. She didn't think they were cops at all. She looked more closely at the uniform and badge on Cop One. They just didn't look right to her. Of course, she was new to Princeton and wasn't well acquainted with the standard issue police uniform but there was something about Cop One's uniform that seemed illegitimate somehow. The color was one thing: It was a dark blue-teal. She had seen on the news, television and photographs uniforms in black, navy blue, grey, grey blue…but never a teal. The weight of the material was another thing that just didn't seem right. It looked like a lightweight, summer cotton rather than a heavyweight blend one would expect to see at that time of year. It looked…cheap. There was also the badge. The more she looked at it, the more it looked like silver-painted plastic, like the kind of novelty badge one would find in a box of cereal.

The chaplain was certain these were not cops at all. She looked quickly around the parking lot and street. She could see no sign of a marked patrol car. These 'cops' may have arrived in a ghost car, but it seemed unlikely. Uniformed police on patrol usually drove marked squad cars unless working a speed trap or other similar operation. Fear different from that which she had felt when she thought she was in trouble with the real police was beginning to take root. It was the fear of the sinister. She looked back to House and saw something in his eyes that convinced her that he was thinking along the same lines as she. If they weren't really the police, then who were they?

"Look," House said with bitter sarcasm as he was being searched. "If you're going to get fresh you at least have to buy me dinner! What the hell is going on? We haven't done anything wrong! Quit _molesting_ her!" he shouted as Cop Two took his time running his hands down past her hips, the entirety of her legs to her ankles and then upwards again along the inseam, coming entirely too close to her groin for comfort. Chloe felt like her skin was crawling.

_Dear God_, she prayed, _please help me_! She couldn't see Cop Two's face but she could tell by his breathing that he was getting off on touching her.

"I'll do whatever I want," Cop Two said in a growl and then brought his head close to hers, resting his bony chin on her shoulder so that his mouth was no more than an inch from her left ear. He breathed hot, moist, garlic-saturated words into her ear and said just loud enough for House to be able to overhear, "You're a sexy little number…how about you and I have a little fun?"

House bristled again and lunged towards Cop Two, but he was effectively restrained but Cop One.

Chloe felt nauseated but she was too angry to vomit. She wanted to spit in his face but she couldn't turn her head quite far enough to do it. Her whole body trembled from a combination of fear and anger, but now mostly anger. She was trying to estimate how tall Cop Two was and how far away he actually stood behind her. Did she have a shot?

"What exactly are you investigating us for?" Chloe demanded through gritted teeth.

"For breaking into this car," Cop One informed her. "For dealing drugs. Take your pick. You're coming with us!"

"If you were the police I'd comply," Chloe spat in anger, "But you don't even come close to fooling us!"

House gave her a thin smile that said 'my thoughts exactly'. The smile quickly disappeared as Cop Two began to drag Chloe towards a paneled full-sized van parked across the aisle of parked vehicles. Chloe saw out of her peripheral vision that a small crowd of curious onlookers was beginning to form near the entrance to the restaurant. They were House's and her only chance of not being abducted by these two goons. Cop One was shoving House towards the van as well.

"Help!" Chloe screamed on the top of her lungs. "Help us, these aren't really the police!" She continued to scream and struggle against her abductor. The crowd seemed hesitant to react to what they were seeing, although there were two or three young men who started to take steps toward them.

"Ah, what's going on?" One of the young men asked suspiciously. "Officers—what's with the van?"

The phony police picked up their pace and Chloe knew that if she didn't act now she may never be able to again. She tried to focus on Cop Two's hold on her, his body position, his apparent strength…trying to find the exact moment….

House acted before she did, throwing himself with all of his strength backwards, head butting Cop One in the face with bone-crunching force; blood began to fountain out of the abductor's nose and mouth and he recoiled in pain, releasing his grip on the doctor for a split second. It was more time than House needed. He pulled free, lurching forward and then, nearly falling, managed to stay on his feet long enough to surge towards Cop One, shoulder down, and ram him in the solar plexus hard, knocking the wind out of the man. Cop One and House flew backwards, post-collision, in opposite directions. The diagnostician fell hard to the ground, landing on his swollen right hand. He cried out in pain and followed that up with a string of curses. The trio of young men in the background began to run in their direction.

Chloe felt herself being lifted off of the ground by Cop Two and realized that they had reached the van. There was a third party inside that she hadn't known about before then, whom had opened the back doors and was now waiting to help Cop Two drag her, kicking and screaming, inside. Cop Two's arm from under his sleeve was exposed at one point and was within reach. Chloe opened her jaws as widely as she could and chomped down on his flesh with all of her might. She felt her teeth sink deeply into his arm; her reward was the distinctive metallic taste of blood. Just then her cell phone began to ring in her jacket pocket, but she barely heard it in the throes of her struggle to stay alive.

Cop Two screamed agonizingly, dropping his hold on her. She felt herself fall and land on the tail of the van, contacting with a painful blow to her kidneys. She screamed again in pain, and rolled to the ground. Her ringing cell phone tumbled out of her pocket and landed open two or three feet away from her head. She laid, unable to move due to the shock of the blow to her system. When she emerged from the temporary stupor she could see that two of the trio of young men had Cop One down on the ground and were struggling to restrain him. The third was digging in Cop One's pocket in search of something. He pulled out a key ring and raced towards House whom was still lying on the ground, shouting something she couldn't make out. In seconds, the younger man had House out of his handcuffs.

Chloe heard something tinny coming from her cell phone. When the phone had tumbled to a halt on the ground it had flipped open and automatically answered the call. Chloe began to flop her body about like a newly caught fish after being released from the hook and thrown to the bottom of a row boat. She managed to wiggle a little closer to the electronic device. She recognized the voice on the other end of the line as being Wilson's.

Cop Two had recovered and was coming at her again. Blood flowed freely down his arm from where she had bit him. She screamed, hoping to catch someone's attention to her predicament. She found herself sobbing and that only enraged her further; she hated appearing like a cry-baby.

"Chloe? Chloe, is that you? What's going on? Chloe?" came Wilson's tinny voice from the phone. He sounded panicked.

Chloe screamed again as Cop Two reached her and went to grab her. She kicked hard, connecting with his chin. His head whipped back violently.

"James! James! Are you there?" Chloe panted towards the phone, hoping he could hear her. She was beginning to lose her voice from her screaming.

"Yes!" he replied. "Chloe, are you alright? What's going on? Where's House?"

"Help me!"Chloe cried out to House when she saw him on his feet and hopping painfully towards her, _sans_ cane. "Wilson, we're under att--!" Her words were cut off by Cop Two backhanding her hard across the mouth and screaming epithets at her. The blood she tasted now was her own. She cried out in pain.

"Chloe!" Wilson called to her, sounding completely terrified. "What's happening?! Where's House? _Chloe_!!"

Cop Two easily lifted her from the ground. The third abductor was screaming through a thick black scarf hiding his face for Cop Two to hurry up. Chloe resorted to screaming again and throwing her body about with all of her might.

"Get your f-----g hands off of her!" House howled as he advanced on them. Cop Two punched Chloe hard in the side of her head. She screamed in excruciating pain, and felt herself start to fade away.

"God damn you! Leave her alone! I'm going to tear your f-----g faces off if either of you touch her again!" House growled, sounding like some kind of primal animal so enraged was he. He lunged for Cop Two, whom dropped Chloe again. The doctor's already swollen and bruised fist connected with a crack with the abductor's jaw. Cop Two fell backwards into the van. House grabbed him by his collar and threw him out of the van and to the ground a few feet from where Chloe lay. The diagnostician was on top of him, pummeling him with blow after blow to the face.

"House!" Wilson shouted through the phone.

Chloe was barely conscious, imagining that a white sheet of nothingness was slowly being drawn over her head. The sound of Wilson's voice right next to her ear brought her back in time to see one of the young rescuers trying to pull the frenzied House off of Cop Two. Chloe sobbed, praying softly out loud. Neither man saw the third abductor in the van withdraw a gun from a pancake holster partially hidden under his jacket, but Chloe did. He raised the revolver, cocking the hammer and aiming carefully in House's direction. His finger touched the trigger.

Chloe mustered the strength to cry out, "No! No, _don't_!"

The third abductor pulled the trigger and there was a flash at the end of the barrel as a bullet exploded out faster that her eyes could see. Chloe screamed a last time as she watched both House and the younger man roll off of Cop Two and then lay still in one heap. Cop Two took this opportunity to scramble to his feet and run to the van, throwing himself into the back as the gunman headed to the driver's seat to make a quick getaway. The van peeled away, its tires spinning gravel and dirt behind it. This flying debris landed on Chloe, stinging her exposed skin. The last things she perceived before she passed out were House and the young man lying motionless on the ground, a number of people running from the direction of the restaurant towards them and the sound of sirens. That was when the white sheet was pulled completely over her.

When Eric Foreman arrived at PPTH he was almost refused entry to the hospital by a pair of uniformed police guarding the Emergency Room entrance, the only entrance open at that time of night. In his haste to get to the hospital as quickly as he could, the neurologist forgot his entry card to unlock one of the staff entrances and was forced to get in via the ER. It wasn't until a Security Guard who recognized him vouched for him that he was allowed in. Apparently, the hospital was in lockdown; no one was being allowed in or out without proper authorization. Only patients arriving by ambulance were being taken; ambulatory cases were being diverted to other area hospitals for the time being.

He headed directly for Cuddy's office, but she wasn't to be found there. He inquired with one of a half-dozen security guards walking through the lobby along with Princeton police asking them questions or keeping guard. It was surreal. The guard told him that he thought he saw her heading upstairs. Foreman decided he would skip talking with her first and head to the emergency operating room instead. He ended up in the observation gallery above the actual room in which Thirteen was undergoing surgery to repair the damage to her throat. The mere thought of it caused his heart to race in fear.

When he arrived he found the Dean of Medicine already there, standing by the glass, watching what was being done below. She looked up at Foreman upon hearing him enter. She looked utterly exhausted. Dark half-circles ringed below her eyes. She wore minimal make-up and was clad in a casual blouse and pair of slacks, obviously having rushed from home without bothering about doing little more than running a brush through her hair. Her brow was creased with worry.

"Hi," she said weakly as he approached the glass, his eyes glued to the operation taking place on the woman he still cared about. Hell, he thought. He loved Remy. Denying the truth wouldn't make it go away just because he wanted it to do so. The trauma surgeon and his team were delicately repairing the cut made in her right Jugular vein. He had seen similar procedures done many, many times before but never on someone who mattered as much to him as she did.

Foreman was silent for a few minutes before he said anything to Cuddy.

"What happened?" he asked softly. "I want to know everything you know, from the beginning."

"I don't know all that much," Cuddy told him with a frustrated shrug. "Wilson called me to rush back to the hospital to meet him and House concerning another matter. We were supposed to meet in House's office. When I got there Wilson had beat House and me. Actually, House never showed at all. The office had been ransacked by someone, I still don't know who. Everything was torn down and flipped over. At first Wilson says he didn't know that Dr. Hadley was under everything until he accidentally stepped on her hand. I arrived then and together we unburied her, discovered that she had been slashed and rushed her to the ER and from there to here. I've been asked to tell this story at least three times to three different detectives but that's all I know for certain. Wilson thinks it's possible that Thirteen—I mean, Dr. Hadley—accidentally walked in on some kind of robbery and she was attacked to keep her from telling, then the robbers tore the office apart to help cover their tracks. House's computer tower is missing and the balcony doors were open." She sighed, shaking her head.

"She was on call tonight," Foreman commented, trying to fit the pieces together but there were too many missing. "If Wilson is right, then someone was after something House has or…maybe after House. The missing tower may be a red herring. This may not be a robbery but an attempted murder, only they got the wrong person." Foreman set his jaw angrily. Whatever the motivation was it all was due to House. He was the master at screwing up and destroying people's lives and yet always squeaking out of everything relatively unscathed. He was a limping catastrophe waiting to happen to the next innocent person unfortunate enough to cross his path.

"I hope you're wrong," Cuddy told him grimly. "A robbery gone bad is one thing…chances are it will never happen again and no one else will get hurt. If this is a bungled assassination of some kind, whoever is doing it may be motivated to try again. There is one possibility you missed, though."

Foreman gave her a puzzled look. "What is that?" he asked.

"House may not be the target," Cuddy replied. "The target may be _targets: _His team and those who associate closely with him. Maybe Dr. Hadley's attacker was laying in wait for which ever member of House's team was on call to show up at his office or the Differential room." She shook her head as if doing so would wipe out that idea like shaking an Etch-A-Sketch™1 would erase its picture. "All I know is if I have to answer questions for one more cop tonight I'll--."

The Dean of Medicine was cut off by a beeper. It was hers. She read the display and Foreman could see the color in her face disappear as a look of dread replaced it.

"What is it?" Foreman demanded, frowning in concern.

"House and Chloe LaSalle have just been brought into the ER by ambulance."

"Who's Chloe LaSalle?" Foreman asked in bewilderment but Cuddy was already out the door. He had so many questions but it seemed no one had all of the answers…yet. And now House and this Chloe-person were injured or sick somehow. It all had to be connected, and that sent a chill down the neurologist's spine. He turned back to the glass to watch again, all of these things swirling around in his head, but foremost was the thought that everybody would be a lot better off if House just disappeared from the face of the earth.

Wilson lay on the sofa in his office. Cuddy had prescribed Ativan for him to calm him down after what he had heard occurring over the phone. When the police arrived at the hospital he was barely calm enough to answer their questions concerning Thirteen and his phone 'conversation' with Chloe. He was physically drained beyond what he could endure and the Dean of Medicine had ordered him to go home to get some rest. Rest? How was he supposed to do that when his best friend and the Goddess with him could be wounded or dead from a bullet? No, he had told Cuddy without leaving any room for argument. There was no way he was going home until he knew whether or not they were still alive. Cuddy gave in when Wilson did agree to lay down in his office and try to relax until there was word. But he knew that he wouldn't be able to do it.

His stomach was still churning relentlessly and his head ached from stress. He was bone-achingly tired but he couldn't stop the steady stream of thoughts and images that seemed to flow in a never-ending loop behind his eyes where only he was able to observe them. It served only to feed his fears but born out of his fear was anger bubbling just below the surface of consciousness that any moment could explode into a rage that Wilson had spent nearly all of his life keeping himself from experiencing ever again.

He had sworn to himself on one dark day a long time ago that he would never allow himself to vent that wrath ever again and in spite of everything he had gone through in his life—even the misadventures, heartaches and headaches with House in his life—he had been able to keep his promise to himself, because if that side of him, that monster that lurked in the deepest, darkest pit of his soul, should ever be set loose again, it would consume every good part of him along with everyone else. He had been mocked by House on more occasions than he could ever possibly remember for being a push-over, a door mat, always having to be the good guy. There was a reason for that and House had no idea how lucky he was that Wilson had buried away that part of himself that not even his best friend had ever seen or heard about. Even just thinking about that monster again after so many years of denial caused the oncologist to wish he could just give himself a knock-out drug so he wouldn't have to think about it anymore.

It took most of Wilson's will to keep him on the sofa instead of pacing his office like a caged animal. How did House manage to continually get himself into dangerous, self-destructive and insane situations over and over again? Unfortunately, more often than not, the diagnostician managed to drag someone into the mess with him and far too often that someone was _him_. Wilson dreamt of the day when all of Gregory House's demons were exorcized out of his life and instead of mayhem his friend would bring with him peace and sanity. Was that too much to ask for? Was that a hope that would never see fulfillment? Was House never to find tranquility and healing from the deep scars he had experienced over the fifty years of his tortured life? Would those who loved him forever be forced into a state of feverish limbo, always on the edge, always wondering if the madness would ever end? Would the only solution to that make it necessary to turn and walk away from him, abandon him like nearly everyone else the diagnostician had ever known?

Wilson never wanted to abandon House to save his own sanity and life, but what if that was the only way he could? No, no that was unthinkable. It was and never would be a possibility. Somehow he would have to keep hoping—and praying?—that friendship would prove to be the stabilizing force that would, someday, save House's stormy and chaotic life.

The oncologist gave up on trying to rest and sat up. He did so a little too quickly as a wave of lightheadedness revealed to him. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply and evenly until it passed and then he rose more carefully to his feet. The lightheadedness was avoided from occurring again and he put his lab coat on over top of his undershirt before he left his office. He would seek out Cuddy and find out if any word about House and Chloe had come in yet.

He stepped out of the elevator into the lobby just in time to see Cuddy half-running in the direction of the ER.

"Cuddy!" he called after her, running to catch up to her. "What _now_?"

She paused only long enough to tell him before continuing on at a feverish pace. "There's two ambulances arriving and House and LaSalle are in--."

Wilson didn't wait for her to finish her sentence. An adrenalin rush upon hearing their names sent him into a run for the ER. Cuddy was right on his tail. They arrived to see ER staffers meet the paramedics who were rushing a stretcher into the hospital. On the stretcher was a semi-conscious Chloe LaSalle, her face bloodied and her wrists and arms badly bruised and cut up. Limping right behind the stretcher was a bloodied and disheveled Gregory House. He had what appeared to be a deep scalp laceration that was covered by a field dressing, and he, too was covered in superficial cuts and bruises on most of his body. His right hand was bandaged but it was obviously badly swollen.

Feeling like he was going to sob in relief upon seeing the diagnostician, Wilson restrained himself from grabbing House and pulling him into a bear-hug. Instead he stepped forward to the man who was being scolded and cajoled by ER staff to go into a bay of his own. He appeared to be determined to follow Chloe into hers, but the bay was so full of ER staffers attending to her that they were trying to keep him out of their way. Wilson caught his arm and stood in the older man's way. He knew he risked being punched again but he had a feeling that House was too played out to fight him.

To his relief, the oncologist was right. House stopped right where Wilson had blocked him and stared past him at what was taking place around Chloe; the lines on his forehead were etched deeply by worry. In his blue eyes Wilson saw raw fear.

Wilson tried to lead House to the next bay but could only get him to stay by drawing open the heavy curtain that separated the diagnostician's bay from Chloe's. Immediately a nurse went to work on House but he seemed oblivious to her ministrations. His attention was on Chloe and Chloe alone.

"House, what happened?" Wilson demanded with concern. He waved the nurse away for a few minutes and looked more closely at the bloody laceration on House's scalp extending from front to back just above his left ear. It didn't look like a normal laceration; in fact, it wasn't a laceration at all. It was a graze left behind by a bullet that had come an inch and a bit away from smashing through House's skull and eviscerating a large chunk of his brain from the whole. There were no words to express the way Wilson was feeling at that moment.

"She has a previous brain injury," House answered distantly. "The asshole punched her in the head with his entire strength. She nearly died before. This time she could…." He shook his head and his forehead furrowed even more. "It's my fault…."

"House!" Wilson cried, grabbing the older man by the shoulders and getting his face into the diagnostician's. "Come on! Are you with me?"

The older man blinked several times as if emerging from a trance of sorts and met Wilson's eyes for the first time since arriving.

"Yeah," House said, nodding. "Yeah. Damnit, Wilson! We went back to the restaurant to search Chase's car for the Oxycontin. We found it, too. I knew he took it, I just had to prove it."

Cuddy had approached them and now stood next to House as well. "Chase stole the drugs?" she asked in disbelief.

"He was in the area of Pharmacy around the same time I was, although we didn't run into each other," House told her, still acting as if he was in a daze. "At the restaurant, the alcohol seemed to hit him all at once even though he had been drinking over the span an hour…when he passed out I saw a Percocet fall out of his pocket. It hit me that he had to have taken one or two of them at some point and they hit him that quickly; that and the alcohol made the attempt to save him futile. He was dead the moment he popped those pills. A tox test of his blood and stomach contents during autopsy will back me up. I realized that he was using and I knew that Oxycontin was as good as Percocet…it all fit together. If I hadn't dragged Chloe along with me to search his car, she wouldn't have been there when the goons attacked."

Wilson exchanged looks with Cuddy; she looked as confused as he was. He wanted to know more about the 'goons' but House's revelation about Chase was his first concern.

"Are you saying that Chase was an addict and none of us realized it?" Wilson questioned.

"Addict, I doubt," House answered. "I don't think he started until after Dibala died, maybe not until Cameron left. Regardless, he was abusing, and that's why I couldn't save him. I guess Cameron was right. I did mold him in my own damned image, and he died as a result. I dragged Chloe into this and now she could die because of me, too."

Cuddy inhaled suddenly, and just that single reaction caught the diagnostician's attention and told him that there was something more that he didn't know; Wilson could see the entire thought process involved work itself out.

"What?" House demanded sharply, his eyes moving suspiciously between Wilson and Cuddy. "What aren't you telling me? Something else has happened, hasn't it? Tell me what's happened!"

Cuddy opened her mouth as if to speak and then stopped herself at the last moment. Wilson glared at her in warning. House seemed to be on the edge and news about Thirteen might just push him over. The diagnostician wasn't about to be put off, however. At that moment House instinctively knew that Cuddy would break sooner than Wilson and turned his focus on her.

"Tell me!" he roared at her loudly enough to make the Dean of Medicine jump and some of the staffers in the next bay look up. Wilson closed his eyes as she began to spill the beans. He couldn't bear to see House's reaction to what she had to say.

"Thirteen was attacked in your office this evening," Cuddy told him quickly, almost cringing in anticipation of House's reaction. "She came upon an intruder or intruders in your office and there must have been a struggle. She was slashed on the neck with a scalpel and it opened her Jugular. Whoever it was tore your office apart and buried her beneath a filing unit. Wilson discovered her first…she's in surgery right now, she bled out quite a bit. It's touch and go."

Wilson opened his eyes slowly, watching House carefully. The older doctor lowered his head and covered his face with his less injured hand and remained that way for several moments before raising his head again.

"Because of me," House said softly.

"Because someone has targeted you and the people around you," Cuddy insisted. "Not because of you. You're not responsible for Chase and you're not for this either."

House looked at her as if she had just told him that the sky was yellow and the earth revolved around Jupiter. "The people around me are being hurt because of _me_. It doesn't matter if I didn't force the booze and drugs into Chase or attack Thirteen and slice her throat—it was my influence that involved them. If Chloe hadn't been with me when we were jumped…." His voice trailed off. He took a huge breath and released it heavily. House began to rise to his feet but Wilson prevented him.

"About that," the oncologist segued. "What the hell happened? I tried to call Chloe's cell phone and all I got was the sound of a brawl and screaming followed by a terrifying gun blast!"

House rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Before we were to come here to meet you we stopped at Connoly's Bar and Grill to search Chase's car for the missing Oxycontin—and no, I didn't break into it. I still had Chase's keys that the bartender handed me this afternoon, before the wombat collapsed. I was certain he had them and the car was a logical place to look. We found it, took some pictures, but before we could get here we were 'arrested' by two thugs of moron-level intelligence masquerading as cops. It was obvious that they weren't the real thing and their intent was to abduct Chloe and me. That's when the brawl started. There was a get-away driver in the van that they tried to throw us into. He's the one who tried to shoot me. He and one of the two goons got away."

As if on cue, the ambulance bay doors crashed open again with another stretcher being pushed hurriedly into the ER. Three staffers rushed to attend to the new arrival and the stretcher was pushed into the bay on the other side of House's. Almost immediately after a couple of uniformed police arrived as well and stationed themselves just outside the new arrival's bay.

"That would be the one who didn't," the diagnostician said, smirking. "Let's just say he won't be breathing through his nose or eating solid foods for a while." The thought of that must have reminded him of the back of his head because he winced and began to rub there gingerly.

The three doctors returned their attention to Chloe's bay when technicians arrived with a portable x-ray camera and set up to take some shots of Chloe's head. She was conscious enough to cooperate with them as they did so. The look of worry returned to House's face. Wilson noted House's obviously deep concern for the chaplain and tucked it away for later.

"Why would somebody be targeting you?" Cuddy asked, perplexed. "You haven't been back from Mayfield long enough yet to have pissed anyone off enough to want to kill you—have you?" She raised one of her eyebrows suspiciously.

House gave her a half-hearted innocent look and shook his head. "I've been a good boy, Mommy." The innocent look faded away. "But it may be someone who I pissed off in the past."

Wilson recalled again the time House had been shot in the Differential room by such a person and shuddered. The older doctor did have quite the knack at making enemies. If only he had the same level of skill at making friends, the oncologist mused.

The nurse who had been attending to House's injuries before being sent away returned with suture supplies and informed Wilson and Cuddy that they would have to leave so she could clean House's wounds and prepare them to be stitched up by one of the ER doctors; they would be sending the diagnostician down to Radiology to have his hand X-Rayed once they were done.

"Have his head X-rayed at the same time," Wilson told her, only half-joking. There was a fair amount of blood clotting in the small hairs on the back of House's head but no apparent wound to account for it. Wilson pointed it out to Cuddy and the nurse.

"It's not mine." House assured them, again with an evil little smile. He gestured backwards with his head towards the goon's bay. "It's his from where I head-butted him. His nose exploded—I wish I could have seen _that_."

Cuddy shook her head in disapproval but a smile tugged at her lips. "Make _sure_ his head gets x-rayed. He may have shaken loose whatever little was left intact from the last time he hit his head."

House rolled his eyes in disgust. "Cuddles go hold one of those cops' hands. I'm sure the twins will put him into a better mood before he questions me about the rumble."

Glaring at him in response, Cuddy marched away, not towards the cops but rather in the direction of her office.

Wilson sighed. Once again House displayed his talent at pissing people off.

In Chloe's bay the techs were still in the process of x-raying her. Wilson saw the lost look in House's eyes as he watched the staffers take care of the chaplain and almost felt sorry for him. Almost, because overriding that was a gnawing burn of anger beginning to take hold. The oncologist tried to push it away, but Jealousy was not easily persuaded to go.

1 Etch-A-Sketch™ is a registered trademark of the Ohio Art Company.


	14. Chapter 14

**Reconciliations: A House M.D. Story**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its concept, current story line and characters past and current are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

A/N: I knew someone once who found himself in a very similar situation as we will find House in this chapter. He feared that if he did what he had to do to take care of himself, his entire world outside of the situation would be irretrievably lost. Of course that didn't turn out to be true, but in the frame of mind he was in at that moment, that possibility of catastrophic results seemed perfectly logical to him. It gave me insight into how black and white the reasoning of a depressed mind can be.

Songs that helped inspire this chapter include: "Never Too Late" by Three Days Grace, "Alright for Now" by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers and "Somebody's Watching Me" by Rockwell.

**Chapter Fourteen**

As soon as House was patched up, x-rayed and cleared to go home he was questioned by two Uniforms about what had happened at the restaurant parking lot. He was in absolutely no mood to answer a bunch of pointless questions and retell the same story over and over again. His head ached in spite of the fact that the x-rays had come back clean, his right hand ached mercilessly because four bones were either cracked or outright broken and he had strained tendons and ligaments resulting in having his hand put into a cast that extended an inch past the wrist and slung up to keep it relatively immobile for the next six weeks.. On top of that was the bullet graze on his scalp that stung like hell and his leg was killing him both from overexertion and just because it _always _hurt. He had been given as strong a painkiller as he could be given without resorting to the forbidden narcotic-class of drugs, but as usual they provided him with very little relief.

Nevertheless, he was given no choice and spent over half-an-hour answering the most inane of inquiries. No, he hadn't been selling the drugs, no they were not his, yes, the car belonged to a dead man, yes, the drugs had been stolen by the same dead man, no, he didn't know his attacker, no, he only _wished_ he was sleeping with the woman he was with and what the _hell_ did that have to do with anything, anyhow? And so on. Towards the end he came close to belting one of his interrogators with his remaining good hand; seeing this, Wilson, who had remained with him during the entire ordeal, had suggested they wait until tomorrow to ask him anything more because he 'needed to get his rest'.

The most frustrating part was that House had no idea what happened with Chloe after he was taken to Radiology to have his hand—and head—x-rayed. After having the head shots completed the cocky radiologist had commented to Wilson that the results showed that there was absolutely "nothing there" which brought a round of laughter from everyone within earshot, including his supposed best friend. Every single one of them was now in the 'vicious retaliation' column of the diagnostician's mental Black List. Oh yes, revenge would be sweet!

Fortunately the police had retrieved House's cane for him but unfortunately for Wilson, the hand he was used to holding it in was incapacitated which meant he had an excuse to force Wilson to push him around the hospital in a wheelchair all evening. When Wilson suggested House try to hold the cane in his _left_ hand like normal people with a bad _right_ leg House reminded him that he was exceptional, not normal. When Wilson agreed with him too quickly, House put a star next to Wilson's name in the 'vicious retaliation' column.

After a quick inquiry they found out that Chloe had been taken to have a CT scan performed because there was some question as to whether or not there was a shadow where it shouldn't have been on the x-rays. This only worsened House's mood. They were told that Chloe would be taken to ICU following the scan and closely observed overnight and depending upon what the CT results showed further decisions would be made in the morning when the attending neurologist, Dr. Eustace Fitzsimmons came in.

"Who in god's name would call their kid Eustace?" Wilson commented when they were out of earshot of others.

"You must never have seen him," House replied snidely. "When he was born he was lucky his mother didn't take one look at him and name him Assface or Butthead."

Wilson chuckled softly. "I think that second name is trademarked."

"Ah," House responded, nodding. "So it is."

Wilson, being exhausted himself, tried to convince House that they should go home.

"No," House said firmly. "I want to stick around until the CT results are available."

"That could be while," Wilson groaned. He told the older doctor that he was worried about Chloe too, but unless she crashed, which didn't seem _too_ likely, there was nothing they could do for her anyway. She would probably be out like a light all night. "Why don't we make arrangements to be called if anything in her status changes and come back first thing tomorrow morning to find out what Assface says?"

House didn't like the idea at all. What good was going home going to do? With the pain he felt and his anxiety level as high as it was, there was no way he was going to get any sleep. He looked up at the oncologist and saw the fatigue on his face. He knew that Wilson would stay at the hospital with him all night if that's what he wanted because…well, because he was _Wilson_, that's why—Mr. Agreeable and Accommodating. Pre-recovery House would definitely have expected that, but the diagnostician didn't want to be that House anymore. He was certainly not aiming at sainthood—how incredibly _boring_ that kind of life would be—but he had been learning in therapy that part of reaching out to others meant occasionally thinking about their needs as well as his own. Wilson was right. Wilson was tired. Wilson had the bruised and swollen jaw House had given him. Wilson needed to go home.

"Okay," House agreed softly, nodding. "We'll go home, but first I want to do one more thing."

"What's that?" Wilson inquired wearily, trying to hold back a yawn and failing.

"I want to see it." House said darkly. He knew that Wilson understood what he meant. They headed for House's office.

As soon as they stepped off of the elevator they saw that actually getting near House's office might be difficult. The door had been removed and yellow police tape was stuck to the glass and blocked the doorway to prevent unauthorized entry into what was a now a crime scene. A Uniform stood guard to make certain that the tape was respected and a couple of others stood around talking. Three forensic investigators wearing gloves and cotton booties over their shoes went in and out of the office as they worked gathering evidence for the police investigation. If Thirteen died, his office would become a murder scene.

All because of me, House thought to himself, feeling guiltier than he had felt since the bus accident and Amber's death.

Wilson pushed the wheelchair as far up the corridor as the police would allow. It was close enough for House to be able to see through the glass at the destruction within. Little flag markers had been set down everywhere, or so it seemed. The glass was smudged with dark inky powder the investigators had used to lift fingerprints off of it. Flashbulbs went off every so often as pictures were taken to document where various kinds of evidence were found so that once they were finished processing the room and it was cleaned up by hospital staff they would still be able to figure out where everything had originally been. Various items, samples, scrapings, tapings and swabs were bagged and tagged before being removed from the scene to be transferred to a lab to be examined.

House watched as swabs of blood droplets and cast-off were taken and sealed, labeled and bagged as well. His eyes were drawn to the only area where the larger items had been moved, where one of the filing units had been pulled down on top of a wounded young doctor by her assailants and then lifted and pushed away again to rescue her before she bled to death. He saw the dark pool of congealing blood on the carpet. Enough of it had been spilled that the carpet had been saturated in spots and blood actually began to set on the surface. It was another stain to match the one in the Differential room.

The diagnostician wouldn't allow that carpet to be replaced either. That was Thirteen on the carpet, and she wasn't garbage to be hauled to a dump. He hoped that the rest of her wouldn't end up joining Chase in the morgue. He had the blood of two lives on his hands; he didn't need another.

House's eyes were drawn to the office chair that used to sit behind the desk. On it rested something he couldn't quite make out until an investigator lifted it from the seat. His sacred ball bloodied, stabbed with what appeared to be a scalpel. He felt a chill run down his spine. There was no question: This was _personal_.

House looked up at Wilson; the oncologist stood silently reflective beside him.

"Home, James," House said without a hint of a joke or sarcasm in his voice. He felt tired, defeated, a hair away from giving up.

Without a word Wilson turned the wheelchair around and pushed him back towards the elevator.

"Actually," House said once they reached the hospital's lobby, "I've got to update Nolan. Can I use your cell?"

"Of course," Wilson said amiably. "I'll take you somewhere less public."

House said nothing but nodded. He noticed the way Wilson looked at him and knew that the oncologist was on to him. He couldn't admit that, however. He was trying to be more open to being vulnerable, but that was just too vulnerable, especially after the day they both had just had. Wilson wheeled him to the chapel. The diagnostician looked at him incredulously.

"Is this supposed to be funny?"

Wilson shook his head. "No, it's just quiet and private. If you'll notice, we're the only ones here. I'll go for a walk and come back in half an hour or so. If you finish talking with Nolan before I get back, there's always, well, you know." Wilson looked up and gestured with his eyebrows. House cast him the best dirty glare he could muster before he left.

The diagnostician felt even guiltier now about punching him.

House activated the phone. Rules about cell phone use in the hospital be damned. He dialed Nolan's number. It was after ten in the evening but the psychiatrist answered on the first ring.

"Nolan."

"It's me," House said softly into the phone. He had no bravado left, no sarcasm, nothing.

There was a delay that lasted a heart beat before Nolan answered. "I was expecting Dr. Wilson, but I'm glad it's you Greg. Thank you for calling back."

House felt an echo of anxiety in his chest but mostly he felt defeated, and that bothered him the most. "I—I don't know exactly how--. I—I am…."

"Take a couple of deep breaths, Greg," Nolan instructed him calmly. "Try to center yourself like we've practiced in session, remember?"

He did remember. At the time he thought the whole centering, or grounding, thing was a huge joke. Now he wished he'd paid closer attention. He inhaled slowly through his nose and blew the air out through his mouth a few times, trying to make each successive breath take longer than the one before. At the same time he tried to be aware of every part of his body from the tips of his toes to the top of his head and think only of the sensations he was experiencing without analyzing or passing judgment. If an unwanted thought or emotion tried to encroach he simply thought it and then let it fly away out of his mind again like the releasing of a helium balloon and returned to the sensations, the breathing. No judgment at having unwanted thoughts or trying to deny them. After about a minute of this, Nolan's voice gently broke House's self-induced trance.

"Greg, how do you feel now?"

He had to admit that he felt calmer and thought clearer. _I'll be damned_, House said to himself. _It actually works_!

"Calmer," he told his therapist.

"Excellent," Nolan told him. "You're doing a good job at self-regulating. When you're ready, you can tell me what's happening."

It took House a few moments to gather the elements in his mind into one cogent stream of thought.

"I screwed up," was all he managed to say, but it was an admission of such weight that just saying it broke down a dam and pure emotion began to pour out of him in the manifestation of deep, heaving sobs. He cried and cried, torrents of anger and bitterness, fear and grief and guilt running down his face as tears. Ordinarily he would have felt humiliated to allow another person, much less another man, hear him fall apart and cry like a girl but for some reason this time he just didn't care. He felt so horrible. He hated the pain. He wanted it all to go away. He wanted everything to go away. His past, his present and his future, he wanted it all gone. So many times in the past he had felt helpless and angry, fed up. He'd dallied with life threatening behaviors and idealized what it would be like to die, but never, _ever_ had he felt before what he felt at that moment.

"Explain to me what you mean by 'screwed up', Greg," Nolan said slowly and deliberately after giving him a chance to compose himself. "Have you taken anything?"

"Not yet." House was deliberately vague; he didn't know himself if he was going to be able to keep himself away from alcohol or drugs. He was so tempted to do so just to make the feelings go away. "I want to."

"Tell me what happened," the psychiatrist told him again.

House gave a huge sigh. "I do nothing but hurt people, destroy lives. I thought that being sober would make a difference, but it hasn't."

"Aside from punching Wilson tonight, how have you been hurting and destroying, Greg?" Nolan asked him carefully. "From what you've been telling me during our sessions, you've been reaching out and reconciling."

Nodding, House replied, "I've been trying. It's not working."

"Change takes time," Nolan reminded him. "It took fifty years to get to the point you were at when you first arrived at Mayfield. It's going to take more than a few months to recover from that."

"Great," the diagnostician sarcastically remarked. "If I live to be a hundred, I just might become normal."

"There is no such thing as normal," chuckled Nolan softly. "That's just a term given to statisticians to make them think that they're actually accomplishing something. We're all individuals. The goal is to become happy, remember? That was the goal you set for yourself. Have you given up on it? Do you no longer want to be happy?"

House knew that the psychiatrist was trying to get him to refocus on why he was going through all this shit. It was psychoanalytical mumbo-jumbo but it was working.

"I want to be happy," House confirmed, "but I don't want to endanger my colleagues and friends while I'm doing it."

"What do you mean?" The psychiatrist sounded genuinely perplexed. House proceeded to tell him about the incident in the parking lot, the attack on Thirteen, the fact that he believed Chase was becoming him and died as a result and Chloe's current condition thanks to him drawing her into his scheme.

"It's all happening because of me," the diagnostician concluded glumly. "The people I know would be a lot better off if I wasn't around."

Nolan was quiet for a moment and then asked, "Have _they_ told you that?"

House sighed. "Other than for Cameron? No…not to my face…recently."

"Have you overheard them say that to anyone else?"

"Not recently," House admitted again, grudgingly. He hated it when logic seemed to be in opposition to his beliefs rather than in agreement with them. He hated it more when people felt they had to point it out.

"I can't tell you that I know what your friends and acquaintances think about you, Greg," Nolan confessed. "You may be right about some of them, or, you may be wrong. Instead of making assumptions like you are, why don't you simply ask them? You might be surprised at what they have to say. If not, then you at least know where you stand and we can take that and work from there."

What the psychiatrist didn't seem to understand was that House was _afraid_ to know for certain what people thought of him, although he'd die before admitting that he even cared. It was easier to assume that they didn't like him with the knowledge that he could possibly be wrong than to find the courage to ask and learn for certain that they hated him. The doubt gave him a protective cushion for his ego to fall back on.

"That's easier to say than do," House offered. It was as close to the truth as he would confess to him and by saying something he might evade further probing by Nolan's scalpel-sharp mind.

"Yes, it is," Nolan admitted, giving the diagnostician that. "Nothing that's of any real worth comes easily. It takes effort and investment and to everything there is always an element of risk. You have to ask yourself this: is achieving happiness worth the risk? Only you can decide that, Greg, but in my opinion it's more than worth it."

House pondered this silently. When he didn't respond, Nolan asked, "Is there anything that has happened since our last session that has brought you, even for a fraction of a second, a bit of happiness?"

One thing came to his mind almost immediately, much to House's surprise. It even made him smile, albeit sadly.

"I met Chloe," he said softly, immediately feeling like a sentimental putz as soon as it left his lips.

"Dr. LaSalle? Is that whom you are talking about?" Nolan clarified.

House nodded, unaware he was doing so. "Yes. It's crazy."

"Why is that crazy?" Nolan asked.

"Because I barely know her," House said, his brow furrowing but the smile on his lips broadening. "I just met her this morning and yet I feel like…I feel like I've known her for years…maybe for my entire life. She's a Goddess. Imagine Venus rising from the foam of the sea. She took my breath away the moment I saw her, but she's more than just a hot chick that I want to lay. All she has to do is look in my eyes and she's able to see my soul, and she doesn't seem to hate or pity what she sees. I'm not certain I've ever known a woman like that before." The words just bubbled out of his mouth before he could censor what he said for gag-reflex induction.

_Oh, God_, House thought. _I'm beginning to sound like Wilson_! He wasn't certain he liked honesty. He cringed in anticipation of Nolan's reaction and was glad that the psychiatrist wasn't able to see the sappy look House knew he had on his face.

There was a brief pause before Nolan responded. "Do you think she feels the same way?"

"I have no idea," House told him, but was that entirely true? She had always shown propriety when with him, when she touched him, and yet there was something about the way she touched him…when she held his hand she began by sliding her hand like a caress over his and when she pulled away, it was like another caress. When she came out of her house and saw him standing there, she had thrown her arms around him; it was more of an embrace than a simple hug; it _lingered_, as if she had been reluctant to let go. When she smiled at him, it looked so different from the way she smiled at others; it was a _knowing_ smile, knowing in that it was a smile just for him. Of course, logic told him like cold rain on his parade that he could be imagining all of that. He wished he knew for certain.

Nolan seemed to be reading his mind. "Some would disagree with me, but in my experience the length of time it takes for one person to bond with another in each case is as varied as fingerprints—it's different from person to person and situation to situation. I'm not certain there _is_ a specific period of time that must be spanned before bonds can be formed. How do you think you can come to know for certain how Dr LaS—I mean, Chloe—feels about you?"

House sighed and rolled his eyes. He had walked himself right into an object lesson, damnit! Nolan was _very_ good. "I ask her," he replied. "But what if she tells me I'm crazy, that she has absolutely no feelings for me whatsoever? I'm not certain I can handle being rejected twice in one month."

"You just told me that she is able to 'see your soul' and that she doesn't 'hate or pity' what she sees," Nolan reminded him, debating skillfully. "So what's the worst that could happen? She could tell you that she likes you but doesn't feel as deeply for you as you do for her. So, you know that at least you have a new friend. That's not such a bad thing, is it?"

"No," House agreed blandly, knowing exactly where this was going but feeling too tired to say so.

"Or," Nolan continued, "she could tell you that she likes you but doesn't feel as deeply as you do _yet_, but she would be interested in getting to know you better. That's not ego-destroying either, is it?"

House sighed impatiently, "No. Or, she could tell me that she's feeling the same way I am, and that would be…great."

"Sounds like the risk is relatively small compared to the possible rewards, don't you think?" Nolan asked.

"This is all contingent on Chloe surviving the injuries she incurred from the attack," House retorted cynically. "If she doesn't I've got her blood on my hands and her thirteen-year-old daughter to face at her funeral, and that brings us back to my destructive influence on others' lives." The diagnostician felt like shit again. He knew that he shouldn't hope that Chloe shared his feelings; he was only a danger to her, as he was with everyone else.

Nolan's voice became very somber. "Are you planning on harming yourself, Greg?"

House was kicking himself again for making the call. If he told Nolan no, then he would avoid being recalled to Mayfield but it would be a complete lie and as soon as he was alone in his bedroom that night the odds of him seeing another sunrise would be miniscule. While he knew Wilson would never forgive him, Chloe might be disappointed in him and his mother would lose the last of her family, at least he would stop wreaking havoc in his wake. If he told Nolan yes, he'd be back in the nuthouse by morning, perhaps never to be released again. He wouldn't be able to hurt others the way he did now, but he would always be an object of disgust and pity for those he would be leaving behind. What kind of future could he expect after that? Why would Chloe want to have anything to do with a neurotic like him?

Nolan must have sensed House's conflict because he said, "You've expressed that you're concerned about hurting the people in your life, Greg. Of the people who mean the most to you, how much hurt would you cause them by killing yourself? I have patients who have been permanently scarred by the suicide of a loved one or friend. What a waste of a brilliant and talented man just on the cusp of finding his true worth and the happiness that comes from that kind of self-discovery. If there is any question of your safety, you must tell me now. You deserve to be protected from harm, even if the source of that harm is _you_."

Feeling fresh tears stinging his eyes, he simply let them roll down his face. It was too much of an effort to deny them and force them back. He was so very, very tired.

House was about to speak when the door to the chapel opened and Wilson stepped silently inside. Seeing that the diagnostician was still on the phone, the younger doctor began to back step.

"Don't go," House told him. He didn't bother trying to hide his tears from Wilson. House spoke into the phone again. "I'm not safe." There it was. He had chosen based on risk versus reward; he risked being labeled a lunatic and never practicing medicine again, with reaping the potential reward of actually achieving his goal of happiness someday. If he was dead, there would be _no_ possibility of that ever happening.

Wilson shut his eyes momentarily in reaction, but he said nothing.

"I'm very proud of you, Greg. How soon can you be ready to return?" Nolan asked him quietly. "Can you make it here tonight?"

House shook his head. "No. I have to find out what the CT scan results are for Chloe first. I can be there by tomorrow afternoon." He looked at Wilson, who was nodding.

"You will be returning to Wilson's for the night?"

"Yes," House told the psychiatrist.

"Is he there with you right now?" Nolan inquired.

"Yes," House said again. Anticipating Nolan's request, House handed Wilson the cell phone.

He listened as Wilson talked with the psychiatrist, being filled in on what was happening and receiving instructions for keeping House alive overnight. The diagnostician should have been beating himself over the head for telling the truth and ending up back in Mayfield, but he wasn't. That might yet occur, but in that moment he had a growing sense of peace about it. Maybe Chloe would be fine and would come on visiting day. Maybe he wouldn't be there for very long; this time he was _starting_ off motivated to accomplish something. Maybe Cuddy would hold his position at PPTH for him and hold off on notifying the State Board about this; and maybe this time she would be smart enough to put someone other than Foreman in charge in the interim.

He had a couple of things going for him this time that he didn't have the first time around: First, he was already sober and didn't have to go through the hell of detoxing again, and second, he didn't have Wilson's dead girlfriend telling him what to do and what to believe.

Maybe everything was going to be alright, after all. Maybe.

Wilson hung up the phone and then grabbed the handles of the wheelchair.

"Let's get the hell home," the oncologist told him, wheeling House out of the chapel and towards the ER exit. "Are you hungry?"

"Are you buying?" House retorted forcing a sardonic grin.

"When don't I?" Wilson griped good-naturedly.

House smiled. "In that case, _I'm famished_."

Wilson shook his head and sighed. "Of _course_ you are."

House was quiet for a few minutes, pensive. "It will be alright." He said. It was a statement made to convince himself more than for Wilson's sake.

"Yes," Wilson said with a small smile. "It will."

They passed the police guard on their way out into the cool evening air.

* * *

It was after eleven by the time Cuddy managed to escape the hospital and head for home. She was looking forward to falling into her bed and being asleep before she landed. Her pace was quick; she hurried to her car in the staff parking lot. She held her purse close to her body and her car key tightly in her fist with the business end protruding through her fingers as a potential weapon for self-defense, just in case. It occurred to her how foolish it was for her to be walking alone in a dark parking lot at night at any time but especially after Thirteen's attack. All she would have had to do was have a security guard escort her to her car, but she had been afraid to attract any more attention to herself than she absolutely had to for fear of being detained by yet another problem that 'desperately needed' her attention.

Even though she had been asleep when Wilson called her to meet at the hospital, she hadn't been asleep for long and was in need of a good night's slumber. When she had awakened, Lucas was gone without a word, a kiss or a note and he hadn't called her at all that evening which was very unlike him. She wondered if it had something to do with his work and he was too busy surveilling or following or whatever else private detectives did to give her a call. She would have understood if he had just said something before he left. Cuddy couldn't help but feel like there was something wrong.

It was very quiet and dark out. The overcast sky prevented any moonlight to reach the surface and that ill-advised citywide power conservation program left about half the amount of light to navigate by than usual. Cuddy couldn't help think she was being watched; the hairs on her neck stood up on end and she felt that sixth sense/woman's intuition thing happening with her. She stopped and looked around behind her, unable to shake the creeps. She could see no one around.

_You're just being paranoid_, Cuddy chided herself. _There's nothing. Keep walking_! She resumed her quick stride but still there was that feeling. She rounded a large truck parked in the fire lane where it didn't belong and her car came into sight.

Cuddy dropped her purse and a hand flew up to her face. Her eyes were as large and round as saucers and she gasped loudly in shock.

Her sedan had been beaten by a baseball bat that lay abandoned on the concrete beside it. The entire shell had been pummeled beyond recognition, every window smashed, every light broken. All four tires had been slashed several times. Yet there was no alarm going off from her security system. The most frightening part of all was the writing on the car. In red spray paint were the words 'DON'T YOU KNOW MY NAME?' written several times over the entire surface.

Cuddy felt tears of anger and horror sting her eyes and her entire body began to shake. She snatched up her purse with the thought of grabbing her cell phone and calling for help. That changed when she heard what sounded like a soda can being kicked across the concrete only a few yards away. Her eyes flashed, seeking out the source in the dark as she spun in circles. She couldn't see anyone, but she _knew_ what she had heard and she _wasn't_ imagining things. Letting out a cry of fear she turned and sprinted back towards the hospital as fast as or faster than she had ever run before.


	15. Chapter 15

**Reconciliations: A House M.D. Story**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its concept, current story line and characters past and current are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

A/N: Hi! Short chapter but I think it's shockingly good. Enjoy!

Songs that helped inspire this chapter include: "Heaven Forbid" by the Fray and "Song for the Broken" by BarlowGirl.

**Chapter Fifteen**

House didn't sleep all night. He was too keyed up to be able to relax and besides that he was in too much pain. He spent most of the night listening to Wilson snore and mumble in his sleep while watching the minutes slip by on the digital clock-radio. Nolan's instructions to Wilson were not to let the diagnostician out of his sight for five seconds until House was safely delivered to Mayfield that afternoon. House had admitted that he was a potential danger to himself and both Nolan and Wilson had taken that admission very seriously. To that end Wilson had insisted they both had to sleep in Wilson's bedroom that night. After a few gay jokes to hide his true feelings of discomfort House had relented mainly because he was too tired to argue.

Two out of three rounds of rock-paper-scissors had determined that Wilson got the bed while House got the mattress thrown on the floor. House had whined and complained about being the injured gimp that needed a good bed for his bad leg but Wilson had refused to give in to him. He hadn't expected Wilson to stand up for himself that way and secretly he was proud of the younger man for doing so but would never let him find out. Proud or not, he hadn't been impressed about having to sleep on the floor, even if it was on a _mattress _on the floor. It seemed ridiculous when his bedroom was just across the hall.

So at about two-thirty in the morning House decided he was going to try to escape. He got as far as the door without waking Wilson and slowly turned the knob so as to make as little sound as possible, easing the door open ever so carefully. There was a tiny squeak made by the hinges and House froze, expecting he was going to be caught but when there was no reaction from Wilson whatsoever, he breathed a little easier.

Once House had the door open he believed he was scot-free. He stepped gingerly through the door—and _felt a bolt of electricity that originated from the crotch of his boxers shoot throughout his body_! He jumped higher than he had ever thought possible, yelling in pain and landing on his ass on the floor with a thud! After a stream of curses and epithets on the top of his lungs as he held his groin and rolled in agony on the floor, he looked back into the bedroom with eyes that spoke of murderous intent. Wilson had raised himself up on one arm and turned on the lamp on his bedside table. He had a smug grin on his face as he shook his head at House in disapproval.

"_WHAT—THE—HELL—DID—YOU—DO—TO—MY—SHORTS_!!" House roared in fury and shock. His heart felt like it was never going to beat again. Worse than that, he wondered if other parts of his body that he was especially fond of would ever work again. He stood up very slowly and began to feel around his boxers for the offending agent; he discovered something like a small, hard but flexible strip sewn into a seam in the crotch that somehow he hadn't noticed until then. He was ready to pick up his cane and start swinging.

"It's from a dog collar for toy varieties," Wilson told him. "You know…one of those inhumane devices some people put on their dogs to keep them from wandering off their property? Do you know how hard it was to find a model small enough to work? Anyway, there's a sensor that I hooked up just outside the bedroom door. The moment that thing in your boxers crossed it, it signaled for and sent a small electric charge to remind you that you had gone too far."

House looked at his former best friend in utter horror and amazement.

"'A _small_ electric charge'?" the diagnostician echoed in disbelief. "That thing nearly zapped my _balls_ off!"

"Shh!" Wilson chided placing a finger to his lips. "You're going to wake up the neighbors. Yes, a small charge. There were supposed to be two of those strips in there but I figured that would be cruel so I stuck to one."

House couldn't believe his ears. It was the ultimate breach of trust! Never in his life did he think Wilson, of all people, would stoop so low! It was a violation!

It was also a stroke of _genius_.

"How?" The diagnostician stammered. "W-when? H-How--?"

Wilson shrugged modestly. "I knew that a day would come when having a ball-zapping device in your underwear would come in handy. _Don't_ start with your gay jokes. One day when you were out I took a few pairs of boxers from your underwear drawer and stitched in a few of those bars then hid them in my closet for a situation where I would need them. I realized that tonight was that situation so while you were having your bath I exchanged the boxers that were in that load of clean laundry you dumped on your bedroom floor with the zapping kind and then I set up the sensor as inconspicuously as I could. Once you were tucked in, I turned on the sensor when I shut the bedroom door. I _knew_ you'd try to sneak out of here tonight. If you would have been a good little boy and stayed in bed, you would have been just fine."

"Until I had to get up to take a piss!" House exclaimed. "I just about left a puddle this time and I didn't even have to go!"

"Well, it's impossible to prepare for every eventuality," Wilson reminded him. "If you need to use the bathroom I'll turn off the sensor and take you there." Wilson began to climb out of bed but House stopped him.

"I don't have to go! Even if I did you sure as hell wouldn't be coming in with me! I haven't had to have help using the potty since I was two. One thing is for sure—I'm throwing out all of my underwear and _you're_ going to by me new ones, Mr. Wizard! Now, cover your eyes."

Wilson looked at him, puzzled. "Why do I have to cover my eyes?"

House glowered at him. "You have to cover your eyes because I'm going to take my shorts off and I don't need a Peeping Jimmy watching me. Cover them!"

Wilson realized what House was saying and a look of disgust and horror crossed his face.

"You're not seriously planning on sleeping in here _naked_?!"

"Well I'm not wearing _Marquis de Sade_ boxers!" House retorted. "And seeing how your underwear isn't, shall we say, _roomy_ enough for me to wear, it appears I have little choice."

"House, you're _not_ sleeping in _my_ bedroom naked," Wilson insisted, ignoring the insult to his manhood.

"Watch me!" House said defiantly and then quickly added, "Figuratively speaking, of course. I'm taking them off and only gorgeous females are allowed to watch. Since you are neither gorgeous nor female you'd better cover your eyes right now!"

The moment House's hands went to the waistband of his boxers Wilson buried his face in his pillow. The older man stripped the underwear off and flung them in his friend's general direction; they landed on the lamp shade. House crawled under the covers of his make-shift bed and got comfortable.

"I'm covered," House announced.

Wilson ever so slowly lifted his face out of his pillow, prepared to hide again at a moment's notice if he had to. He went to turn off the lamp and saw the surprise his friend had left him. He screwed his face up at the sight and flicked the switch.

House laid in silence, thinking. His leg was killing him but not nearly as much as his hand. It was a novelty for his leg not to be the most agonizing part of his body. He reached up and touched the scabbing wound on his head. That had been close, _too_ close. He could have been shot in the head and died. That didn't bother him as much as the thought that the gunman could just as easily have been pointing the gun at Chloe.

Chloe. Just her name made him smile. What was it about her that made her so irresistible? Was it her strength, her kind heart, her acceptance of him, her incredible body…or was it something else? He just couldn't pick one thing. It was the entire package, he decided. There was this connection that had been established the moment their eyes met. She had to have noticed it too. At least, he sincerely hoped so. What would happen now, however, when she found out he was back in Mayfield? What would she think about him? _She'll probably think_, House told himself glumly, _that she dodged a bullet_. He felt so lousy that he couldn't even appreciate his own pun. He cursed the fact that he had been born only to endanger and destroy the lives that crossed his.

"House?" Wilson's voice broke the silence.

"Yeah?" House responded quietly.

"Were you really thinking about killing yourself tonight?"

House sighed. "I was finished with just thinking about it."

Wilson remained silent but House's curiosity was piqued. "Why do you ask?"

"Just curious." Wilson answered briefly. Another couple of minutes passed before Wilson commented. "You're incredibly selfish."

"Thanks."

"Do you think you're the only one who's lonely?"

"What's this about Wilson?"

"If you die, where do you think that leaves me?" Wilsonasked, answering a question with a question. There was an edge of anger to his friend's voice House wasn't accustomed to hearing.

"With more room in your apartment?"

"Don't be a smart ass! You think I care about that?"

_No_, House thought, _I don't. I'm just not certain I want to talk about this with you right now_.

"Why don't you tell me," House told him. He knew the younger man would anyway.

He heard Wilson sigh and then there was more silence.

"I don't have much of a family," the younger man said eventually. "I have three ruined marriages to my credit and Amber's gone. I have no kids. As far as friends go, I don't have all that many and among those I do you're the best one I have."

"You're not a lucky man, are you?"

"I think I am." Wilson told him pointedly. House didn't miss the implication. The diagnostician couldn't think of anything to say to that, so he remained silent.

"If you kill yourself that leaves me alone." Wilson told him softly. If the statement was intended to evoke guilt it worked.

House pondered that. He hadn't really considered the impact his suicide would have on Wilson. Nolan had been trying to get him to think about the exact same thing earlier but it hadn't clicked. He knew that the oncologist would be affected by it but he hadn't considered just how much. He knew that if Wilson were the one to die, he wouldn't be far behind him. He hadn't realized that Wilson thought similarly. House felt tears sting his eyes. _Damnit_! He thought to himself. _When did I become such a chick_?

"Just don't do that to me," Wilson finished and rolled over in bed to face away from him.

House debated whether or not to say what he was thinking. What he wanted to tell him was one of the hardest things in the world for him to say because it meant lowering his 'wall' as Chloe called it, and leaving himself vulnerable to mockery and rejection. Risk and reward: those words echoed in his brain.

"Wilson?"

"Yes, House?"

There was a pause. "Promise not to take what I'm going to say the wrong way, okay?"

The oncologist sighed. "Okay."

House swallowed hard but his throat felt completely dry, his mouth felt like it was filled with cotton balls.

"I-I love you."

Wilson was quiet for what seemed to be an eternity and House felt like he was dying inside. The oncologist now thought that he was gay, he was sure of it. He had pushed things too far and had just destroyed the relationship he cherished the most.

Wilson finally responded. "I love you too, House. Now go to sleep, okay?"

"Yeah," House agreed, exhaling silently in relief. It was the response he had hoped for but not the one he had expected.

House spent the rest of the night thinking and rethinking about their conversation and trying to make out what Wilson was mumbling in his sleep. He also thought about Chloe, how fragile she had looked lying motionless in the dirt of the restaurant parking lot as the paramedics carefully put a cervical collar on her and secured her to a back-board before lifting her onto the gurney. He remembered how insanely angry he had felt when he watched her being brutalized by the two assholes trying to throw her into their van, the helplessness he felt when he couldn't protect her and how sick he had felt when he saw her assailant pound her in the head the way he had, knowing that the blow could compound the past damage her brain had already sustained. He wanted to hold her closely to himself and kiss her, knowing that it might be his one and only chance to do so. It was almost more than he could take not knowing if she was going to alright.

He worried for Wilson, his mother, his ducklings, his mother, Cuddy. He knew who else might be targeted next? He couldn't think of any other way to protect them than to remove himself from their lives. If he were gone, the maniacs committing all of the madness might back off and leave them alone.

When the time on the clock turned to five-thirty, he decided he'd had enough of pretending that he was sleeping and crawled out of his bed. He used his cane in his left hand to painfully pull himself to his feet. Awkwardly he forced himself to walk with it in his left hand as well. In his opinion it hurt more that way. Again he opened the door carefully and as he took a step through the door he hesitated automatically; you really had to appreciate the power of Operant Conditioning. One painful shock to the balls and House would be hesitating in doorways for the rest of the day at least. Damn that Wilson! House reminded himself that he no longer wore the underwear and therefore was no longer in any danger. He made his way to his bedroom where he grabbed a clean towel and a pair of short_s _from a drawer, avoiding the pile Wilson had mentioned. He headed for the bathroom to take a leak and then a shower and get ready for the long day he had ahead of him.

After personal hygiene and getting dressed he found himself too anxious to sit and loaf around like he usually did while Wilson, who was always up before House on any ordinary day, made coffee and breakfast. He used to suck at cooking before he took culinary classes with Wilson following his release from Mayfield, but now he was a damned good cook. It had lost its allure not long after he had returned to PPTH but he still knew how and he could do it with one arm tied behind his back—which was a good thing seeing as he really did only have one arm to work with. He thought he would prepare crepes with fresh strawberries and crème freche for breakfast and surprise the oncologist.

There was only one problem: they didn't have strawberries, or any other berry for that matter. He had got his mouth salivating for strawberries, and crepes with crème freche just were not the same without them. He looked longingly at the front door. The market down the street opened at six and it was nearly that now. By the time he walked there it would be open. He could grab the items that he needed and be back long before Wilson's alarm would go off and wake him. Technically he wasn't even supposed to be up and about the apartment without having his hand held much less a block away shopping for groceries. However, so long as he behaved himself, went straight there and straight back, where was the harm? Since he had survived the night he certainly wasn't going to off himself before he had his crepes and checked on Chloe to make certain she was going to be alright. If he found out she wasn't going to be, however…he forced himself not to think about that. Making the decision, he went to the door, grabbed his jacket and set out.

It was still overcast outside and looked like it could start raining again anytime; the rising sun illuminated the sky to a softer shade of grey. Early morning traffic was beginning to increase and the occasional pedestrian would pass him on the sidewalk as he limped along, trying to get used to his cane in the wrong hand. Occasionally someone would flash him a smile and a "good-morning' as they passed by. For the life of him, House didn't know why, but he found himself returning the smiles with a small one of his own; he definitely was losing it, he decided with a slight shake of his head.

The small mom and pop market, a quickly vanishing sight in a world that preferred corporate mega-stores, was just unlocking its doors when he got there, just as he had predicted. On his way in he nodded and smiled at the pretty cashier setting up her till and was rewarded with a smile and wink. Hmm. Perhaps there was something to this being pleasant with others after all. House grabbed a basket and headed to the produce section. He couldn't afford to waste time and risk not getting back to the apartment before Wilson woke up and found him gone. The oncologist was likely to call in the National Guard this time if he knew the diagnostician was missing. He threw in a cellophane rapped tray of bright red strawberries into his basket and then grabbed some blueberries and raspberries while he was at it. After grabbing a pint of light cream from the cooler and a few more sundry items he headed to the till to pay. The cashier was watching a small TV hanging the wall opposite her; a local morning news program was on. He placed his items on the counter and glanced up at what it was she was watching so intently that she hadn't noticed him standing there yet.

There were pre-recorded video images of what appeared to be a single-vehicle accident on one of the local freeways. Police cars surrounded a grey Mercedes hard-top convertible that appeared to have lost control and crashed into a couple of concrete barriers before stopping. The video angle changed to show a closer shot of the driver's side of the sedan. The silhouette of a male driver could be seen through the side window.

"It's so awful!" Gina the cashier said shaking her head sadly.

"Just another idiot driving too fast," House commented. Gina started when she heard his voice beside her. She turned back to the till and began to ring through his groceries.

"Oh, no," Gina said in response to his comment. "I saw this same report when it broke about fifteen minutes ago. That man in the car was shot in a drive-by shooting. On another channel they actually got their cameras close enough to see the face of the driver. Here, I'll show you." She grabbed a remote control from beside the till and flipped the station to another news program on another network.

House wasn't interested in the shooting of some idiot he didn't know and tried to get her attention so he could pay and get going.

"See," she said, pointing at the TV, ignoring his protestations. House rolled his eyes and looked up hoping that by doing so Gina would actually return to doing her job instead of annoying the hell out of him. She was pretty but obviously was as dumb as a stump.

The blood drained from House's face and he began to tremble uncontrollably from head to toe when he saw the image of the man in the car, the man who had a bullet hole in his left temple and was slumped back against the driver's seat after bouncing off of the deployed air bag in front of him.

The dead man.

Taub.


	16. Chapter 16

**Reconciliations: A House M.D. Story**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its concept, current story line and characters past and current are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

A/N: Thanks again for all the encouragement that I've received. It gives me the warm fuzzies! For those of you who are wondering if there is ever going to be a conclusion to this story, fear not! There is—but I did tell you it was going to be a journey, not a day-trip! I already have the ending written.

Songs that helped inspire this chapter include: "Liar, Liar" by the Castaways and "You Better Run" by Pat Benatar.

**Chapter Sixteen**

Surgery was completed without complication and Thirteen was wheeled into the Recovery Room to be monitored for a while before being taken to a room. In the midst of the fog that was semi-consciousness she heard a voice saying her name. At first she couldn't tell if the voice was male or female, but as the fog slowly dissipated and she became more and more conscious it became apparent that it was male. She tried to open her eyes but her eyelids felt like they were made of lead. It took a few minutes longer for her to be able to open them a sliver. Her vision was blurred but she easily recognized the face looking at her.

"Welcome back," Foreman said softly to her. She thought he was smiling but she couldn't tell for sure. Her head was still buzzing from the anesthetic she had been given and it took her a moment or two to figure out where she was. For the life of her, she couldn't remember _why_.

"Hi," she murmured. Her throat hurt from being intubated. "What…happened?"

"You don't remember?" he asked her. She shook her head. There were so many fragmented thoughts emerging from the haze and she wasn't able to pull them all together to complete the puzzle. Her vision was beginning to clear and she could see that the neurologist had a very serious face on.

"We're not certain about the details, "Foreman told her. "You were attacked in House's office, you're throat was slashed and your Jugular opened. You just got out of surgery. Does any of this ring any bells?"

She tried to think. A picture flashed into her mind. It was the image of a man with salt and pepper hair. His face was blurred, and as for what he was wearing she wasn't certain but she could clearly remember what he smelled like; he wore a strong, musky cologne—and way too much of it--that was very familiar to her but she couldn't attach a name to it for the life of her. He was holding something in his hand that gleamed when it caught the light. Thirteen gave this description to Foreman, who listened with fascination.

"But you can't remember his face?" he prodded gently. "Did he say anything to you? Would you be able to recognize his voice if you heard it again?"

Thirteen felt irritation by his questions. "I don't know, I don't remember."

She sighed, and closed her eyes. When she opened them again she found herself in another room. From the number of monitors around the head of her bed she guessed that she was in a room in ICU. She was alone this time. To her left was an I.V. pole with three bags of various fluids being fed through a regulator to a line in her arm. Clipped on her right index finger was a pulse oximeter that recorded the oxygen saturation level of her blood and in her nostrils was a cannula feeding her O₂. She had no idea what time it was—or even what day it was because she had no idea how long she had been unconscious. It could have been just a few hours to a few days.

Her alertness level was higher than it had been in the Recovery room. The fact that Foreman wasn't there when she woke up this time suggested that it had been for more than a few minutes since he was asking her questions about her attack. She was able to recall more about it, but what she remembered confused her more than it frightened her. When her nurse, Debbie, came in to check on her, Thirteen was able to learn that she had slept until ten o'clock the next day and the Dr. Foreman would be in shortly to see her. She was also told that the police wanted to talk to her in a few minutes about the events surrounding her attack. The young doctor was more than ready to talk.

Debbie asked her if she was hungry and wanted breakfast, but the last thing she wanted was food; Thirteen felt nauseous from the aftereffects of the anesthesia and her throat felt raw from intubation. She did accept the offer of herbal tea, however. It was shortly after the nurse returned with the tea that Foreman arrived, smiling when he saw her awake and alert. She smiled back weakly. She wasn't certain how she felt about the attention he was showing her—she didn't want him to get the wrong idea about the possibility of some kind of reconciliation between them—but it was an encouragement to know that she was cared about. She was open to a truce and she might even be up to friendship, eventually, but as for anything more her decision had already been made.

"Good morning!" Foreman greeted her. "You're looking much better."

Thirteen shrugged, "Well, you know, I had a fill up and oil change and I'm ready to roll." Her voice was scratchy.

"I talked with your surgeon," he told her, taking a seat in a chair beside the bed. "He said that the laceration was a clean one so repairing the damage was relatively simple. The only danger was that you were still shocky when you were brought to the OR. He'll probably stop by to see you later today."

Thirteen couldn't help but smile at the way he was speaking to her as if she was simply a patient without any medical knowledge—old habits die hard.

"I just hope I'm discharged soon," she commented in frustration. "I hate being cooped up."

"Barring any infections or complications you'll likely be released by tomorrow. I heard the nurses talking on my way here—they're going to move you to the ward this afternoon."

"Good," Thirteen said with a strong nod.

Foreman nodded, gazing at her in a way that made her uncomfortable—it was the same way he would look at her while they were dating, over a candlelight dinner, after they made love. She had to look away. She couldn't let herself to be sucked into old feelings than fill me in on what happened, that weren't relevant anymore.

She heard the door open and Debbie poked her head in long enough to tell Thirteen that there were two police detectives outside who wanted to speak to her now. Foreman took that as his cue to leave. For a second, Thirteen could have sworn that the neurologist was going to kiss her, but instead he patted her hand gently.

"I'll talk to you later," Foreman told her, "and you can fill me in as well."

She nodded and watched him leave. She could see the police waiting outside through the half-open blinds and as soon as Foreman was gone they stepped in. Both were men, but apart from that they couldn't have appeared any different from each other if they tried. One was tall and broad; he looked like a linebacker in a sport jacket. In his late thirties, he was an attractive man with medium blond hair trimmed to a brush-cut that was slightly thinning on top. The other was a dark, light-boned man at least six inches shorter than him with a thick head of salt-and pepper colored, curly hair; he was at least 15 years older and was no Brad Pitt (or Angelina Jolie, for that matter)to look at. _Not that it matters_, Thirteen reminded herself. Both presented their I.D. and badge to her.

"Dr. Hadley? I'm Detective Hal Molonitny," the older man told her, "and this is my partner Detective Mitch Hunt; we're with the Princeton police department. We would like to ask you a few questions about what happened to you last night. Would this be a good time to talk?"

Thirteen knew that he was politely _telling_ her that they were going to question her now, but she didn't care. She was anxious to talk about what she remembered. She nodded and waved them further into the room.

"Fire away," she told them with a smile.

Hunt smiled, pulling a notebook out of the inner pocket of his jacket. She caught a glimpse of his gun in a holster underneath. The questioning was carried out primarily by Molonitny with Hunt throwing in one or two of his own. It was easy to tell which one of them was the senior officer aside from their age.

"First of all, how are you feeling?"

"Not too bad," she answered, impressed with the way he broke the ice by showing concern and consideration. "I'm alive, so I can't complain."

"I hear that you were lucky Dr. Wilson found you when he did or else you would have bled to death."

Wilson had found her? That was the first that she had heard about that, or at least that she could remember. What was he doing in House's office at that time of night and not at home babysitting her surly boss? Strange things were afoot to be sure.

"So I hear," she replied with a nod. "I don't remember anything about my rescue, but I do remember quite a bit about the attack."

"Fantastic," Molonitny told her enthusiastically. "First we want to get some background information and then we'll get into that." He asked her basic questions like how long she had been a doctor and how long she had been working at PPTH for House.

"How well do you know Dr. House?" the older detective asked her.

Thirteen shrugged. "Fairly well," she answered. "We're not really friends or anything like that, but as one of his Fellows I work quite a bit with him."

"What kind of man is he, in your opinion?" he pressed. "What makes him tick?"

Thirteen frowned at this line of questioning. What did it matter what she thought about House? House had nothing to do with her attack.

"He's…brilliant. A genius…but if you tell him I said that I'll deny it," she answered. "He's a difficult person to know and work with; he's surly, egotistical, self-centered, resentful of all signs of authority and indifferent towards his patients and staff. I think a lot of that stems from the rotten things that he's had to endure in his life, including his bum leg. What all those things are, I couldn't tell you. As far as being a diagnostician I think it would be fair to say that he is the best in his field in this country and one of a handful of the best in the world." She paused a heartbeat. "I don't understand how this has anything to do with my attack. If you're suspecting him of doing it I can assure you right now that it wasn't him."

"He has a solid alibi," Molonitny agreed but continued to ask questions about him. "Would you say that Dr. House is the kind of man who would have a lot of enemies?"

_Enemies_? Thirteen thought to herself. _Why does he want to know about that_?

"I have no idea," she answered truthfully. "I wouldn't know anything about that. I know that he doesn't have very many friends, but I haven't heard anything about enemies. Why are you asking me so many questions about House? Do you think he has something to do with my attack? I just told you--."

"I know what you said," Molonitny interrupted, still speaking with a pleasant tone of voice but it seemed to Thirteen like he had some kind of agenda he was pursuing and wasn't about to be sidetracked from it. "You said that he's 'surly' and doesn't exactly have the best bedside manner. Is it possible that he may have angered one of his patients or a patient's family enough that they would seek retribution?"

Suddenly Thirteen understood why they were so interested about House.

"You think somebody is targeting House in some form of revenge?" she demanded incredulously.

Hunt was the one to answer this time. "It may be a possibility. Through questioning we've been able to ascertain that someone tried to frame him for stealing Oxycontin from the hospital yesterday, one of his employees died, House and another hospital employee were attacked and nearly killed last night outside of a restaurant, you were attacked and his office ransacked and late last evening Dr. Cuddy discovered her car had been vandalized in the hospital parking lot and she reported that she thought that someone hung around after and was watching her when she discovered it. Individually each event could be written off as unrelated but when added together in the same day it looks suspiciously related and the common factor seems to Be Dr. House."

Thirteen couldn't believe what she was hearing. She hadn't heard anything about House and this other woman being attacked or Cuddy's car being targeted by vandals. Who _was_ this other woman House was with? It all did seem _so_ incredibly coincidental, but she couldn't think of anyone she knew about who would be targeting House and his associates. Since coming back from rehab House hadn't been as obnoxious as before. Then again, if there was a connection, it could be someone seeking revenge for something House did _before_ Recovery. She had no idea who or why, however.

"I don't know anyone who would want to hurt House or the rest of us, for that matter," Thirteen told the detectives, shaking her head. "I have no clue what's going on. Are House and this other person alright? Do you have any suspects in mind?"

"None that we're able to discuss yet," the older detective told her. "The last we heard, Dr. House suffered non-life-threatening injuries and was sent home but the woman with him suffered a head injury and was admitted. Dr. House and Dr. Cuddy were questioned by uniformed officers who took their statements last night but Detective Hunt and I haven't had the opportunity to speak to them personally yet. We may know more after we do that."

"This is a lot to take in," Thirteen said softly.

Molonitny nodded sympathetically but then launched back into the questions. "You said you don't know anyone who may want to get back at your boss for anything. What about those people closest to him? Do you know if there have been any issues in his personal life and relationships that may be relevant?"

Thirteen thought about his question for a moment. She wasn't surprised by it now that she knew what they suspected. Often people who were victims of stalking or violence knew their offenders and far too often those offenders turned out to be close friends or family. That's why so many cases of violent assault, rape or murder seen in hospital emergency rooms were domestic in origin. House didn't have all that many acquaintances never mind friends and the only family he had that she had ever heard about was his mother and she doubted that mother and son spent too much time together, either.

He did have Wilson. They were very close and if Thirteen didn't know for a fact that they were self-proclaimed, practicing and card-carrying heterosexuals she would definitely suspect that they were a romantic pairing. _Then again_, Thirteen thought, _I'm a good example of how a person doesn't have to be gay or lesbian to enjoy having sex with members of the same gender._ It was possible that House's never-ending harassment of _her_ bisexuality was his way of deflecting attention from his _own_, and while she wouldn't say that there was any overt quality about Wilson that screamed homosexual or bi, he wasn't the 'macho' type either. Regardless, _never_ in her wildest dreams would she believe that Wilson would do _anything_ to threaten or hurt House in any way, shape or form.

Of course, there was Cuddy to consider. Thirteen didn't think there was a person who worked at PPTH who hadn't heard the rumors of a relationship being established between House and the hospital's administrator. They had known each other for a very long time and were constantly arguing-slash-flirting with each other, and there was that incident before House went into rehab where he shouted to everyone in the lobby from the second floor mezzanine that he had slept with Cuddy. Thirteen had heard that no such thing had actually occurred and it all had been part of House's drug-induced delusions, but how could anyone be sure except Cuddy and House? Then again, there was the introduction of Lucas Douglas into the mix. Cuddy was involved in some kind of relationship with the private detective and things had definitely cooled between the Dean of Medicine and her prize-diagnostician as of late. If Wilson was in love with House and knew about the diagnostician's dalliances with Cuddy, _could_ it be possible that the oncologist was seeking revenge for being betrayed by his lover? Then there was this woman that Detective Molonitny had mentioned was with House when he was attacked. They were at a restaurant, he had said. Perhaps they were on a date together? That would add an interesting angle to things.

What if Cuddy still cared about House and was angry that he had taken up with another woman (even though she was with Lucas) and was seeking revenge on him for having done so. But that didn't make any sense since she, or rather her car, had been targeted too. Was it the other way around? Was this mystery woman jealous of Cuddy and was the one seeking revenge? If so, how did Chase and she fit in, and wasn't Chase's death caused by an _accidental_ alcohol overdose? Could it be Lucas, afraid of losing Cuddy to House, who was the villain? She shook her head mentally—life at PPTH was more like a soap opera than anything else!

So enthralled was she in her speculations that she didn't notice when Molonitny tried to get her attention It took him gently taking her shoulder and shaking it slightly to grab her attention.

"Are you alright, Doctor?" Molonitny asked, looking at her with puzzled concern.

"What?" Thirteen answered distractedly, looking at him. "Did you ask me a question?"

Molonitny and Hunt exchanged glances before the older detective responded.

"Uh, yeah," he said to her, "I did but then I seemed to lose you there for a while. I asked you if Dr. House was having any issues in his personal life that may be relevant to what happened to you? Any bad relationships? Maybe a divorce or break up?"

"No," Thirteen told him, "not that I know of. He doesn't discuss his personal life with me. He's not really close to anyone except…."

"Except?" Hunt prodded when she didn't finish her sentence.

Thirteen was so reluctant to say anything for fear of implicating someone unjustly. She had to give them an answer or they would think that she was hiding something from them.

"Well," Thirteen said, shrugging, "the only real friend House has is Dr. Wilson. In fact he is living with him right now. I'm not trying to imply that they are living together as in anything romantic---they're roommates. Wilson may be able to tell you more than I can. There are rumors circulating that there might be something going on between House and Dr. Cuddy, but rumors can be very unreliable." She sighed impatiently. "Listen, do you want to know what happened to me last night or not?"

"Yes we do," Molonitny told her with a nod. "Why don't you tell us what you were doing before you were attack and carry on from there?"

_Good_, Thirteen thought.

She took a deep breath before beginning. "I was on call last night. House's most recent case is a kid who was brought in with aspirin poisoning who just happened to have viral meningitis as well. He was on the mend but when I checked on him last night his temperature was elevated again and he was complaining that his pain wasn't letting up which it should have been, which is not a good sign. I went to House's office to get a special requisition form for another lumbar puncture to keep the hospital's administrator happy. It was really quiet at the nurse's station you have to pass when you get off of the elevator. There was only one nurse around and she was busy entering something into the computer. I didn't think much about it at the time. The office was dark and I didn't see anything out of the ordinary. I walked in and flicked on the lights. Everything seemed normal except it felt really chilly. I noticed that the balcony door was ajar a little, which explained the temperature."

"Is it normal for that door to be ajar?" Molonitny asked, Hunt was busily scratching away in his note book.

"No," Thirteen answered with a shake of her head. "If House has opened it he always closes it before he leaves for the day. If he forgets, which has only happened once that I can remember, one of us shuts it."

"Us?"

"His team members," she clarified. "I thought that this was the second time he forgot. I crossed his office and went to close the door when I saw a figure standing out on the balcony. It scared me and I jumped back."

"You didn't scream or anything, did you?" Molonitny inquired. "The reason I ask is because when we questioned the staff who were in the area around the time of your attack they didn't recall hearing anything unusual come from that office."

"No," Thirteen told him. "I've never been much of a screamer."

Molonitny nodded in acknowledgement. "Okay, go on."

"Well," the young doctor continued, "The figure opened the door and jumped into the room. I turned to run when he grabbed me by the hair and pulled me towards him. I did yell out at that. He grabbed me around the waist and clamped a gloved hand over my mouth so I couldn't call for help. He was trying to drag me out on the balcony and I was afraid he was going to rape me or kill me so I tried to fight him off but he was too strong so I grabbed onto the door well trying to keep myself from being pulled out. I'm not certain what happened to make him lose his grip on me, I just know that I got free and started to run again. I was definitely screaming this time. He came after me and grabbed my arm and yanked me back to him. He put me into some kind of headlock and then I saw him wielding something shiny and put it to my throat. It was a scalpel. I don't know where he got it from. Maybe he brought it with him. Anyway, he growled to me that if I tried to cry for help or get away he'd slit my throat."

"And so you tried to get away and he followed through on his threat?" Molonitny finished for her with a question in his voice.

Shaking her head, Thirteen told him, "No, not exactly. I asked him what it was that he wanted, what I had to do for him to let me go."

"And what did he say?" Hunt interjected.

"He told me that I had to keep my mouth shut," she replied, her voice beginning to quiver as she recalled how frightened she had been at the time. "I told him that I wouldn't tell anyone that he had been here if he would just let me go. He got angry at that and dug the blade of the scalpel into my skin. He told me that he didn't care about that and that I had to stop playing dumb because I knew what he was talking about."

"Did you?" Hunt asked.

"No, "Thirteen answered almost indignantly, wondering what the detective was trying to imply with that question. "I didn't have a clue. I told him that but he didn't believe me. He told me that he was going to have to kill me to make certain word didn't get out. I didn't know what he meant but I didn't doubt that he was going to kill me. I begged him to let me go--." Her voice broke as tears stung her eyes. She stubbornly blinked them back and cleared her throat. "I begged him to let me go. Then my beeper went off.

I think it freaked him out because he jumped and I pulled away. He lunged at me with the scalpel and with a swinging motion he cut my neck. At first I didn't realize how badly he had injured me. I think he was going to escape somehow by the balcony but when he saw me trying to run he grabbed at me…somehow he lost his grip on me and the next thing I know he hit me over the head with the telephone. I don't remember it even hitting me but it must have because something sent me falling onto the floor. That's when I realized that I was bleeding very badly. I was feeling really weak and disoriented, but I tried to crawl for the door. That's when he started flipping furniture over and throwing things around. He said to me, 'Oh no you don't!' and pulled this large filing-bookshelf kind of thing down on top of me. I couldn't move under it. I could feel my own blood pooling under me." She shuddered and hugged her self. "I don't remember anything else until I woke up in Recovery." She closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths.

Molonitny and Hunt were quiet for a few moments as they waited for thirteen to calm down a little. When the older detective resumed his questioning he spoke more gently. He seemed to be genuinely affected by Thirteen's recounting of what was a very traumatic event for her.

"Dr. Hadley, do you know who it was who attacked you?"

"No," she said with certainty. "I have no idea who he was."

"Can you describe to me what he looked like?"

Thirteen nodded, quickly wiping away the one tear that got away on her. "He was average height and build, in his forties, I think. White and his hair was half-black and half-silver grey. He wore all black—black hoodie, black jeans, black socks and running shoes. He didn't even try to hide his face. He didn't wear glasses. What really caught my eye was this watch he wore: It was a Rolex. It didn't look fake, either. It was predominantly white gold. I remember wondering what class of killer wears an expensive watch. Also, he had the most nauseating cologne on. I can't place a name on it but I know I've smelled it before. I would definitely recognize it if I encountered it again."

"What about his voice?" Molonitny pressed. "Was it high-pitched or was it low? Did he speak with an accent or impediment?"

She considered his question for a moment but couldn't think of anything about her attacker's speech that stood out as unique or unusual. She shook her head. "There was nothing about the way he talked that stood out. I'm not sure I know the timbre of his voice because it sounded like he was growling to hide what it really sounded like."

Hunt was racing to keep up with his notes. Thirteen wondered why he didn't use a digital recorder instead. She felt completely exhausted from all of the questions and the emotions they evoked. All she really felt like doing was sleeping.

"We'd like to have a police graphic artist come and create a composite picture of what your attacker looked like from the descriptions you provide," Molonitny told her. "Would you be up to that?"

"Not right now," she told him wearily. "I'm feeling very tired right now. Can we do it later?"

Once again the two detectives exchanged looks. Hunt shrugged almost imperceptibly and Molonitny looked back at her and nodded. "Sure, absolutely," he told her. "We'll just leave our card at the nursing desk on our way out and the hospital can call us when you're feeling better and are ready. Is there anything else you want to tell us that we haven't covered?"

Thirteen couldn't think of anything more and shook her head. The detectives thanked her for her cooperation before leaving her alone. She relaxed into her bed, having no energy left to see any more visitors until she had a chance to sleep. As she was drifting off she reminded herself to sit down with Wilson after all of this was over and have a chat about House.

* * *

Lisa Cuddy arrived at the hospital by eight the next morning in spite of having been kept there so late the night before. She would have been there sooner but had to wait for Lucas to pick her up and he was running late due to some kind of traffic snarl caused by an accident on the freeway. With her car having been vandalized she had had to stay even later at the hospital to file the police report. Her car became evidence and was towed away by the police for intensive forensic testing in an effort to determine who it was that was trying to terrorize her and seemingly everybody else associated in any meaningful way to Gregory House. By the time she was allowed to go home it was close to midnight. Luckily, she managed to reach Lucas on his cell. He told her that he'd been busy tailing a client's cheating husband and taking pictures so he had turned his phone off for most of the evening so he wouldn't be called at the most inopportune time and be given away.

As soon as Lucas heard what had happened to Cuddy and the others that evening he had hurried over to the hospital to take her home. He had told her that he would do what he could to look into what was going on and see if he could learn anything the police may be missing. In the meantime he had convinced the Dean of Medicine that she needed to beef up security at the hospital and consider hiring an expert consultant he knew to help her make her home environment a little safer for Rachel and her when he wasn't around to protect her.

Cuddy had a solution that she had suggested as Lucas drove her home from the hospital: she suggested that they move in together. She had argued that it was the natural next step in the progression of their relationship anyway and she would feel safer with Lucas there with her at night. He had agreed that it was a good idea and he would move in the next day.

Lucas walked Cuddy into the hospital, carrying Rachel in her car seat. He was going to be watching her for the morning and had made arrangements to take her to the zoo, weather permitting. The Dean of Medicine appreciated his concern for her, but wondered if he might become almost too protective of her and her daughter in his zeal to keep them safe. Cuddy enjoyed her independence and didn't want to be smothered by a mother duck following her around, either.

When they entered Cuddy's office she found three voicemail messages waiting for her and several more post-it notes with messages and phone numbers on them where her personal assistant had left them for her. The Dean of Medicine sighed. _And so the day begins_, she thought to herself ruefully.

Her first plan of attack was to listen to her voicemail. As she did Lucas sat on the sofa and freed Rachel from her bonds so she could stretch a little before she had to be strapped back in for the drive to the zoo. Two of the messages were from detectives wanting to set up a time to speak with her at more length about the events of the day before. She dreaded having to answer another load of questions. The third was from Wilson. He left a cryptic message she didn't quite understand fully. It caught Lucas's attention and he leaned in towards the speakerphone to listen.

"Cuddy, it's Wilson," the message began. "House is going to need some time off…probably two weeks, maybe three. He called Nolan and it's complicated, but he's _not_ using. Hold off on any major decisions concerning House's department until I have a chance to talk to you. House and I will be in this morning and I can fill you in then. Talk to you later."

Lucas frowned slightly. "Why would Greg need time off when he just got his department back?"

"That's a very good question," Cuddy agreed, frowning as well. She had a gnawing feeling in the pit of her stomach that something bad had happened with House after Wilson and he went home last night. Several scenarios entered her mind and none of them left her feeling anything less than worried.

"I hope he's alright," Cuddy said out loud.

Lucas nodded and then reassured her, "I'm certain he is. He's got Wilson looking out for him, right? Don't worry about Greg. He's like a cat…he has nine lives, takes a licking and keeps coming back for more."

She nodded. "Yes, I'm sure you're right. The only thing is I think House has already used up most of those nine lives. How many more could he possibly have left?"

Shaking his head, Lucas set Rachel down and went to Cuddy, wrapping his arms around her waist. "I thought we agreed that House was no longer your concern and that you were going to stop stressing out over his antics?"

Cuddy nodded and shrugged. "We did, didn't we? Okay, for the rest of the day no more worrying about 'what's his name'. If there's anything important I'm certain I'll hear about it when Wilson and he arrive."

"Good," he said approvingly and then kissed her softly on the mouth. She grinned in appreciation. "Rachel and I should get going so you can get to work." He bent down and picked up the baby. Cuddy took her for a moment and hugged her good-bye before handing her back to Lucas. He skillfully secured Rachel back into her car seat. He gave Cuddy another peck on the lips and then left with the baby.

Once they were gone Cuddy began to go through the array of post-it notes but she couldn't stop thinking about Wilson's message. The oncologist has sounded very stiff, which usually meant he was stressed by something. Of course, since House had moved in with him, Wilson was stressed pretty much all of the time. Still, she thought she should give him a return call just to be safe. Before she picked up the receiver, however, the phone rang for her. It was an outside call.

"Dr. Lisa Cuddy, how may I help you?" she answered pleasantly as she shuffled through the papers on her desk.

"Dr. Cuddy," a haggard-sounding voice said, "This is Rachel Taub. My husband works for--."

"Of course," Cuddy cut her off, smiling to herself. "Dr. Taub works for House. We met at Chase and Cameron's wedding reception. How are you?"

There was a long pause during which Cuddy could swear she heard a sniffle. "Not well, actually." Rachel Taub said. "I'm calling because something has happened to my husband."

At first Cuddy's reaction was confusion. Why was she calling her if Taub was going to be late or not coming in? She should be notifying House or Foreman. Quickly, however, Cuddy felt afraid. The sniffling, the pauses, something had happened to Taub, Taub worked for House—_Oh god, no_--!

"What happened?" the Dean of Medicine asked tentatively. Her throat felt like it was constricting and her palms started to sweat.

"There was an accident and my husband was killed."

_Killed_. Cuddy didn't hear anything else for a while as the word screamed over and over again in her mind mockingly. _Killed. Killed_.

"Oh dear god," Cuddy murmured and felt her knees give out. She was grateful that her chair was there to catch her. Not Taub, too! It couldn't be a coincidence, could it? She said it was an accident. Oh, please let it be just an accident!

"Dr. Cuddy?" Rachel said. "Are you still there?"

Cuddy forced herself to breathe, to think, to speak out of sheer willpower. "Yes, I'm still here? I'm so sorry, I-I don't know what to say. You said it was an accident?"

"The police say that…that he was shot in the head by a person in another car driving past him on the freeway. He lost control of the car and…." Rachel's voice broke and she began to sob softly.

He had been shot. Cuddy felt sick to her stomach as she allowed that to sink in her shock-numbed mind. It wasn't an accident at all. Chris Taub had been shot and killed. It was _murder_. He worked for Gregory House. The Dean of Medicine tried to hold back the tears and the hysteria rising in her chest, threatening to take over her entire being. No one was safe, _no one_!

"I thought you should be notified," Rachel told her once her sobs had subsided again. "Dr. Cuddy, Chris told me last night that someone may be targeting House and…and his team? Is that…is that true?"

Her tears would not be contained and they ran down Lisa's cheeks. "Mrs. Taub, I'm so sorry!"

"Why?" Rachel asked her plaintively. "I just want to understand why?"

Why? That was the question, wasn't it? Why? And who? Who was responsible for this bloodshed? Who wanted House and the people around him dead? Absolutely nothing made any sense anymore.

"I wish I knew!" Cuddy told her earnestly, grabbing a tissue and drying her tears only to have new ones fall. "Is there anything I can do for you right now that would make things easier at this time?"

"No," was Taub's widow's answer. "There's nothing anyone can do. If I were you, Doctor, I would distance myself as far away from House as you can. Chris wouldn't, and now it's too late for him. I need to go." Rachel hung up. Cuddy replaced the receiver onto the phone base and then rested her head in her hands for a few minutes, trying to gather her thoughts and feelings. What did she have to do next? Who did she have to notify? What arrangements had to be made concerning Taub's salary and personal items and…and…Damnit! Why was this happening? She was angry and scared. Not scared only for herself, but scared for Rachel, scared for Lucas, scared for her staff, for the remainder of the ducklings, or, duckling? She was scared for Wilson.

She was scared for House. No. She was _terrified_ for him, for what news of this would do to him, for his sanity and sobriety—for his _life_. This was more than just a disgruntled patient or family member seeking revenge. This was a carefully planned and calculated attack. She knew what she had promised Lucas, but how could she possibly keep it? No matter what happened in the past, House was still her friend and she couldn't just turn her back on him like he no longer existed!

She called Lucas. After the third ring it went to his voicemail. Why wasn't he answering his phone, damnit?! Didn't he know how frightened she was? How was she supposed to warn him, to protect her daughter who was with him if she could never reach him?

Cuddy left a message for him. "Lucas, you need to call me as soon as you can! Please! Dr. Taub was murdered this morning on his way to work! No one is safe. I need to know that Rachel and you are safe. Just call."

Her next call was to Wilson. He had to let the oncologist know what happened so he could prepare to break it to House and deal with his reaction. She was amazed the diagnostician hadn't crashed and burned already; she couldn't imagine him surviving this.


	17. Chapter 17

**Reconciliations: A House M.D. Story**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its concept, current story line and characters past and current are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

A/N: The title of the third song below doesn't really use the word 'screw' you so if you are sensitive to certain language you probably won't to listen to this song :O I found it to be very apropos. Thank you for the encouraging and amusing comments!

Songs that helped inspire this chapter include: "To Make You Feel My Love" by Garth Brooks, "Lean on Me" by Bill Withers, and "Screw You" by Lily Allen.

**Chapter Seventeen**

The telephone ringing woke Wilson from a sound sleep; it took him a couple of rings before he realized it was the phone but he managed to answer before the answering machine kicked in.

"Hello?" he said sleepily. He looked at the clock which read eight-ten A.M. He had set his alarm to go off at seven-fifteen and wasn't impressed that it hadn't gone off when it was supposed to. Now he'd be late for work and House should be having a conniption fit by now.

"Good morning, Wilson," Cuddy said, but her voice indicated that it was in no way a good morning for her. In fact, she sounded down-right upset, which brought the oncologist out of his drowsiness.

"What's wrong?" he asked her, forcing himself up to a sitting position. Immediately he noticed that House was no longer in the bedroom and his anxiety level rose. Perhaps he was in the bathroom or getting dressed.

"Taub is dead." She told him flatly and then sighed.

Wilson's heart skipped a couple of beats and his anxiety level doubled. "Oh my god! Oh, Lisa. How?" Would the insanity never end? Who was next?

She told him about her conversation with Rachel Taub. Wilson listened with horror, his mind spinning. Now House's absence alarmed him more than ever. He excused himself a moment and covered the mouthpiece, shouting, "House? House, are you in the bathroom?"

There was no reply from anywhere in the apartment. Wilson envisioned his friend lying in the middle of the kitchen floor in a pool of his own blood with his carotid slit open by the butcher knife in his own hand. Wilson, now panicking, spoke again into the phone.

"Are you thinking that this is connected?" He said as he leapt out of bed.

"I'm sure of it ," she replied. "Wilson, is everything alright? You sound funny."

Wilson fought his body's urge to hyperventilate. "House told Nolan that he was suicidal last night--."

"Oh my god!"

"—and Nolan has recalled him to Mayfield. I wasn't supposed to let him out of my sight, but he's gone. I gotta go!"

"Good luck, Wilson!" she said but he didn't hear her because he was already hanging up.

He hurriedly pulled on some clothes, not caring whether they matched or how he looked. None of that mattered. Finding House alive and well and keeping him that way was what was important. Why did he keep doing this? Why couldn't he just stay put and fight for his own safety? The oncologist was at the end of his rope. He didn't know which emotion he was feeling was stronger—anger, or fear?

He went through every room in the apartment, entering each one with the fear of finding his friend dead from his own hands. Not finding him that way did not alleviate any of his fears because he was still gone, nowhere in the apartment. Wilson rushed to grab his jacket, wallet, cell phone and keys and was about to bolt out the door when he noticed the piece of paper stuck under the front door. He reached down and picked it up. It was a note written in House's chicken-scratch but after years of practice Wilson could decipher the scrawl.

"James," it read, "Taub's dead. My fault. Got to do something about it. Taking a cab to hospital. Meet you there. Greg."

_'Got to do something about it'_? Wilson thought. _What does that mean_? Did it mean that House was going to commit suicide? But if so, why would he go to the hospital to do it? Besides, he said that he would meet him there, which didn't sound like he was going to anything to harm himself, at least not before Wilson got to the hospital. Had House simply grown impatient waiting for the oncologist to wake up and went on ahead to find out how Chloe was doing? How did he know about Taub's death already?

Wilson couldn't think straight. He forced himself to breathe, to settle down enough to be able to function; he could have his breakdown later. He grabbed his jacket, keys, wallet and cell phone and was just about out the door when the phone rang again. He contemplated ignoring it and then realized that it could be House calling. He grabbed the phone.

"Wilson," he said impatiently.

"It's Cuddy. You can relax," the Dean of Medicine told him. "Security said he arrived here about a half-an-hour ago in one piece."

"Thank god," the oncologist said, exhaling loudly in relief. House had been true to his word and was safe, at least for the moment.

"I checked around and the charge nurse in ICU said he was in with Dr. LaSalle," Cuddy continued. "I'm supposed to tell you that she's going to be fine. She has a slight concussion but there doesn't appear to be any complications and if she does well on some neurological tests today she'll be discharged this afternoon."

It felt like a five-hundred pound weight had been lifted off of Wilson's shoulders and he could suddenly breathe again. Not only was House safe but the good news about Chloe would help buoy his spirits somewhat after learning about Taub. Wilson wasn't pleased at how close the diagnostician and the chaplain had become; he wanted a chance with her himself. However, competitiveness aside, things were looking a whole lot better than they were a couple of minutes ago.

"Cuddy," Wilson sighed, "When all of this is over, I'm taking a month off and you're babysitting House."

"Fat chance," she remarked. "I've already got one child to look after, I don't need two. Besides, I don't think Lucas would appreciate it all that much."

"I guess not," Wilson agreed ruefully. "Do me a favor and make sure House stays put until I get there?"

"I'll do my best," she replied.

"That's all I ask," he told her and then switched gears for a second. "Are _you_ alright?"

"I've been better," Cuddy admitted and then told him about the vandalism done to her car and the mysterious message that had been scrawled all over it.

"What does 'Don't You Know My Name?' even mean?" Wilson asked incredulously.

"I don't know, but it scared the hell out of me, "was the response. "There are a couple of detectives who are going to be asking some questions today and you're one of the people on their list. Don't say I didn't warn you."

"On second thought," the oncologist quipped, "maybe I'll take my vacation time now…."

"I'll see you in a little while, Chicken," Cuddy told him and then hung up.

Wilson had to smile at that as he hung up as well. Chicken? Never. He preferred the term 'Fraidy-cat'. He hung up his jacket and went to get ready for work.

Chloe opened her eyes only to close them again right away. It was too bright and it hurt her eyes to keep them open. She tried to determine from the sounds she heard where she was and what was going on around her but it was too quiet. All she could tell was that she was in bed and her upper body was raised about forty-five degrees. She tried to move her arms and discover one was attached to tubes that pulled a bit painfully on her arm when she did. An IV line, she concluded with certainty. She had spent a long time in the past with those in her arms. As she shifted her hips slightly she felt the catheter that had been inserted and was attached to a urine bag, no doubt. She remembered that, too. So, she had been admitted to the hospital. She had been brought in how many hours ago? Or was it days ago? She had no clue how long she had been unconscious.

Her last memory before the fragmented ones of being in the ER was of a gunshot and Gregory House and another man falling to the ground in a motionless heap. That thought terrified her, and she felt this aching need to know whether House was still alive. He _had_ to be. She forced her eyes open, albeit slower this time to allow them to adjust to the increasing illumination.

Sitting on the edge of her hospital bed, looking down at her was the man himself. Upon seeing her eyes open a small, relieved smile crossed his lips and two crystalline orbs gazed into eyes. He looked exhausted; the lines around his eyes and mouth looked deeper than usual and he was pale. There was a scabbing wound to his scalp and his right hand was in a cast and hung in a sling tied around his neck. A couple of purplish bruises colored his face. In spite of his smile there was a sadness about him that instantly made her heart ache for him. He reached and brushed some of her hair off of her face with the gentleness of a caress.

Chloe was thrilled to see him alive! She tried to sit up to hug him but he immediately held her down, careful not to hurt her, his eyes looking alarmed.

"Greg!" she exclaimed, surprised at how softly it came out of her mouth. She had no volume to speak of. She wanted to hug him but he wouldn't let her rise.

"Be still," he told her. "Don't try to get up."

"I'm so glad to see you're okay!" she told him, grinning. "I was so afraid for you!"

"Me?" he responded and shook his head. "I'm fine. I was worried about _you_. I didn't know if you were going to make it. How do you feel?"

The chaplain made a mental check list of the sensations in her body. "I have a slight headache," she told him, "and my lower back hurts a little…it feels bruised, but otherwise I feel alright. Why were you so worried about me?"

"That goon hit you in the head and you passed out. There was a large risk of that triggering complications from your previous injury," he told her. His voice was low and soft as her spoke. "A CT scan was done and it came out clean. You were lucky."

Chloe looked at him and shook her head. "I don't believe in luck," she told him. "I believe God protected me from the evil intents of those men. Just like I believe he protected you."

He looked away at her and smiled bitterly. Chloe could see that he was trying hard to contain strong emotions that he either couldn't or wouldn't allow himself to feel.

"What is it, Greg? What has happened?" she asked him with concern. She rubbed his arm comfortingly. He shook his head but she was insistent. "I know that something has happened that has left you very broken inside. Please tell me what it is."

He swallowed hard a couple of times before answering. He refused to look her in the eye.

"Another member of my team is dead," he said in a forced monotone. "Dr. Taub. He was shot while driving to work."

_Dear Jesus_, she prayed silently. _Help us! Help him_!

"Greg," she murmured. "Please look at me."

House shook his head again and he was continuing to swallow to hold his feelings in check. Chloe tried to sit up again and again House placed his hand on her shoulder to stay her. He was forced to look at her when she put her hand on his cheek and turned his face toward her. She saw the tears glistening in his crystal blues.

"Don't hide your feelings from me," she said to him, her hand remaining on his cheek. She caressed his beard with her thumb. "You don't have to hide from me."

He closed his eyes, leaning his face into her touch and a tear trickled down his cheek.

"I just about screwed everything up," he whispered, "and I have to return to Mayfield."

"Shh," she told him gently, her other hand going to his other cheek. "Shh. The important thing is that you _didn't_ screw up. You need to focus on that. Focus on what you do right, not what you do wrong. There are enough idiots in the world who'll love to tell you your faults. You don't have to be one of them."

"I would have screwed up if not for Wilson," he argued, shaking his head.

"Is Wilson here right now?" Chloe asked him. "You could be holed off somewhere high or dying, but instead you're here with me. You're stronger than you give yourself credit for. Besides, what are friends for if not to support each other in our trials? If you are honest with yourself, you know that if the tables were turned, Wilson could rely on you."

"I don't know that at all," he said glumly. "I'm a bastard--."

"Stop it!" Chloe snapped suddenly, her eyes angry. "I never want to hear you say that about yourself again! You need to rise above the self-pity and start speaking better about yourself. That's an important step towards healing." When she saw the surprise on his face she softened her tone again. "Self-pity will only keep you stuck. What is done is done. It cannot be changed. What matters is what is done from this moment onward. _Comprenez-vous_?"1

The diagnostician nodded unconvincingly.

How she wanted to hold House! Who cared about what anyone else might think? So she had only known him a short time—so what? She saw in him a man capable of great strength and courage who was hurting more than he could handle alone but that didn't mean he had to do it alone. All he needed was for those who cared for him to help him stand until he was strong enough to stand on his own. She had no doubt whatsoever that day would come sooner rather than later. After all, he'd had plenty of opportunities to throw it all away but he hadn't. He did what he had to do to hang on, even if that meant leaning on others for help. She cared for him so much! She knew her feelings for him went deeper than they should, than was wise.

House looked at her longingly and she saw in them exactly what she felt; no matter what happened from that point on, they would never be complete without each other.

"Chloe," House said, taking one of her hands and softly kissing the palm of it. "I need to talk to you about something, but now that I'm headed back to Mayfield, I don't know if I have the right."

She reveled in the touch of his lips on her skin, it tingling wonderfully. "I don't understand what that means," she told him gently. "Just say it."

House paused for a moment, seeking both courage and words. Chloe suspected that he didn't know how to express such personal thoughts because he lacked the security and practice, likely due to his harsh upbringing.

He stammered slightly. "I-I--." He stopped, sighing.

"Go on," Chloe prompted softly.

He looked at her for a moment as if drawing strength from her. As far as she was concerned, he could have as much of her strength as he needed.

House just couldn't bring himself to speak and he looked frustrated by that fact.

"Alright," Chloe said, "I'll go first. It seems so strange to tell you this when I have only known you for one day, Greg. It really is such a short time…I can't stop thinking about you. When you look at me, I feel like I've always known you, like there is this connection of our souls. _Je dois sembler si idiot_!"2

He shook his head and smiled knowingly. "You don't sound foolish at all."

"I _knew_ it," Chloe chuckled softly. "I _knew_ you could speak French."

"My Dad was stationed in France," he admitted, shrugging nonchalantly.

"And his brilliant son couldn't help but soak it all in like a sponge," Chloe said with admiration. "That does not surprise me a bit."

He looked down shyly and then back to her. "I care so much about you." He sighed and closed his eyes in case she reacted poorly to what he said next. "It's not easy for me…to tell people how I feel. Chloe, I want to tell you that I'm falling…." His words trailed off. She could see in his face the struggle that was taking place inside of him. His need to tell her how he felt and his fear of being vulnerable to rejection, to mockery, to being hurt seemed to be tearing him in two. She could see him tremble and fight not to appear…what? Fear of appearing weak? She wished he could understand that strength wasn't measured by how emotionally hard a man was, how much bravado he could show but in the courage to be who he really was, to be compassionate and sensitive no matter what his father may have tried to beat into him.

"Come closer," Chloe told him, gently grabbing his shoulder and drawing him closer. His eyes searched hers questioningly as she took his face in her hands again and drew him even closer until his face was only inches from her own. "You're worth whatever it takes to bring you happiness, Greg. You know that I mean what I am saying, don't you?"

He simply nodded. Chloe looked at his mouth and then leaned forward enough to brush her lips against his. She could hear his breath catch upon contact. She smiled against his mouth, her eyes looking deeply into his and then she kissed him tenderly, reveling in how his lips felt between hers as she gently sucked them and released only to capture them again, enjoying the taste of him. Her heart raced in her chest. Just as she was about to pull away, she felt his hand move to the back of her neck to support her head. His lips began to seek out hers, tentatively at first and then with greater fervor. She snaked her arms around his neck and began to run her fingers through his short hair and in circular motion along the nape. Chloe felt the desire she had long denied and buried come forth, radiating deliciously throughout her body. She breathed harder when she felt his tongue brush her lip inquiringly, asking permission. She parted her mouth and felt it plunge hungrily into hers. Her entire body ached for him. She had never been kissed with such passion and desire before and she felt herself becoming lost in it.

Reluctantly she pulled away, knowing that she had to if she were to remain in control of herself. She kept her face within inches of his, panting softly. House drew her closer again and began to press hot kisses along her cheek bone, her temple, down her jaw line and to the curve of her neck. She gasped and closed her eyes, feeling like she was going to melt into him.

"Greg," she purred. "Greg, I…."

He brought his face back to hers, looking at her lovingly, smiling. Lovingly, she thought again. She couldn't ever remember Joseph looking at her that way. Could it possibly be true that someone would look at her and touch her this way? House was not the only one with insecurities. Chloe's disbelief in herself ever being worthy of being cherished haunted her, too.

At that moment no words were necessary. They knew exactly how the other was feeling and for that moment there was no world outside of their own. He rested his forehead against hers and stared into her eyes. There was such tenderness there, such vulnerability, such trust. This was more than just a kiss, and they both knew it.

"I'm falling for you, too," she confessed, and it was no easier for her to say than it was for him. Common wisdom screamed that it was too soon and she feared rushing into something that could end up hurting her like the last time she had surrendered her heart to another. None of that changed how she felt about him, though. They were two people who needed to know that they were worthy of being loved after having been hurt so badly before.

"I don't want to lose you," House whispered, cupping her cheek with his hand. "I don't want to go back. I want to stay here with you."

"Whether you do or not," she answered, "you won't lose me. I'm not going to abandon you. _Believe_ that. Greg, I need to know that you won't hurt yourself."

He closed his eyes, sighing. Chloe leaned toward him and placed feather-soft kisses on his eyelids, the end of his nose. "I just want you to _want_ to be alive," she breathed.

House drew her to him, kissing her with a desperation bred from the fear of an uncertain future, the fear of this being an illusion and when he opened his eyes she would be gone. Chloe wanted him to believe her when she told him she wasn't going to leave….

"_Oh, gross, get away from her_!" Chloe heard come from the door. Both she and House withdrew from each other's embrace reluctantly and looked up at the speaker of those words. Standing there was Sara, her face screwed up in a shocked and disgusted scowl. Behind Sara was Wendy Brand trying to repress an amused smile and failing pathetically.

Chloe felt blood rush to her face but she was so happy to see her daughter that she didn't care. She smiled broadly and held out her arms.

"Sara," she cried, "_Venez ici, chéri_!"3

House rose from the bed as Sara obeyed her mother and ran into her embrace.

"_Je t'aime, Maman_." Sara whispered into Chloe's ear, clinging to her. "_J'etais ainsi effrayé_!"4

Chloe's eyes teared up and she closed them to hold the tears back. She could only imagine the terror Sara had felt when she was told that her mother was in the hospital again. So many horrible reminders of the past! Chloe held her at arm's length and smiled reassuringly.

"I'm sorry I frightened you," Chloe told her. "But I'm fine." She looked up at House, who looked a little uncomfortable standing there with strangers after having been caught kissing her. "Greg, this is Sara, my daughter. This is Dr. Gregory House, Sara, and he'll tell you that I'm going to be alright."

The diagnostician tapped his cane nervously on the floor at this. Sara looked up at him skeptically.

"Yes," he said stiffly and then nodded his head once to back it up. "She is." Chloe noticed how he was having difficulty meeting Sara's intense stare. She was tempted to rescue him and then stopped herself. He didn't need to be rescued. He was capable of doing this on his own.

"If you're my mom's doctor," Sara said suspiciously, "what were you doing kissing her?"

House looked to Chloe but she said nothing. "Uh," he said, and one could see the wheels turning in his head. "It's a diagnostic technique. It's very effective at determining how your mom is…feeling."

"I'll bet," Sara scoffed. "_Real_ effective. Did you slip her the tongue, too?"

"Sara!" Chloe exclaimed in surprise, nearly coughing. "That is unnecessary."

House rolled his eyes and exhaled. "Look, Kid. Your Mom _liked_ it. Deal with it."

Chloe wanted to crawl under the blanket and hide. It served her right for throwing him to the wolves like she had. She was also pleased with the sarcasm—it was a sign that he was feeling more like himself and less fragile. No matter how well House would become, she knew that he would never entirely lose his sarcasm—it was a part of who he was. Now she was concerned about how her daughter was feeling after seeing Chloe kiss someone who wasn't her father. The thirteen-year-old had never encountered that before.

"That's so gross!"Sara said, screwing her face up.

"Don't knock it 'til you've tried it," the diagnostician retorted, smirking at her.

"Okay!" Chloe interjected, feeling it was time to change the subject. "Greg, this is my pastor's wife, Wendy Brand. She's been babysitting Sara."

Sara scowled at her mother in embarrassment, her hands on her hips. "I'm not a baby, Mom, and I don't need a sitter! Seriously!"

Wendy extended her hand and smiled. "It's nice to meet you, Dr. House."

House looked at her hand for a moment.

"You're supposed to shake it, Idiot," Sara told him sarcastically.

Chloe opened her mouth to chastise her daughter but House beat her to it.

"Be quiet, kid, or I'll suture your mouth shut!"

"I'd like to see you try," Sarah shot back sarcastically.

"Enough, Sara," Chloe told her firmly. Her voice was soft with an edge to it, conveying her displeasure subtly. Sara, having heard it before, backed off.

"_Oui, Maman_," she said in obedience but she still glared at House suspiciously. He gave Sara the same look before briefly shaking Wendy's hand.

"Likewise," he muttered almost shyly to Wendy.

The chaplain could tell that he felt uncomfortable around others at the best of times, but right now he was out of sorts and just returning the greeting was taxing for him. Chloe wondered if he would have done it if Sara hadn't said anything.

"I have to go take care of a few things," House told Chloe, trying to make a graceful exit.

"Will I see you later?" she asked him softly.

He smiled for her only. "Count on it." He looked over at Sara and smirked deviously. He turned back to Chloe, bent down and kissed her on the lips, lingering for just a moment.

"_Heel_, boy," Sara said snarkily at House. "Or I'll take a hose to you!"

Chloe could have sworn she saw a smirk of amusement tug at the diagnostician's lips but he hid it quickly if she had. He stood over Sara and the difference in height should have made it intimidating.

"Watch it, kid," he snarled. "I bite."

Sara looked up at him unwaveringly. Chloe had never seen her daughter behave this way before. Sara was a lot like House in that she didn't take to people quickly but unlike House, who hid his discomfort with bravado and sarcasm, Sara usually shrunk back and became very quiet. With him, however, she was quite the opposite, showing an aggressiveness her mother would never have thought possible. Chloe had no idea what it meant and that worried her.

"I'll just _bet_ you do!" the thirteen-year-old told him without any sign of being intimidated whatsoever. "Maybe you need a _muzzle_."

House glared at her and then snarled unexpectedly at her like the dog she had called him before limping past Wendy on his way out. From the expressions on Sara's and the other woman's face, Chloe knew she'd have to answer some uncomfortable questions and wished she could go with him. One thing was certain: in the battle of wits it was Sara 1, House 0. Chloe hoped it didn't end up becoming a full-fledged war.

Foreman stood at the foot of Kirk Gartner's bed, writing on the teenager's chart. Things were not looking good. He was displaying Facet's sign: bradycardia with an accompanying increase in temperature. His level of consciousness had deteriorated again and he seemed to be in more pain in spite of the fact that he was maxed out on morphine. The neurologist suspected that there was more going on than meningitis. He definitely _had_ viral meningitis, but more and more it looked to Foreman like a serious albeit rare complication—encephalitis.

The doctor jumped a little when he heard House's voice behind him. He hadn't heard him limp in.

"It's not viral encephalitis," the older doctor told him in a matter-of-fact manner, limping up to his side. It was like he had read Foreman's mind. "Thirteen upped the Acyclovir again last night and added Foscavir but his condition continues to deteriorate." House shook his head. "What can cause the symptoms of viral encephalitis and yet not respond to antivirals?"

Foreman scowled at him. "Is this a quiz, House? Are you back on the case?"

"Who said I was ever off of it?" the diagnostician replied. "I asked you a question."

"Why don't you tell me since you already know?" Foreman retorted, shaking his head and rolling his eyes.

"Think!" House insisted impatiently. "It's obvious why you sucked at replacing me if you can't even do that!"

Foreman looked hatefully at the diagnostician. He _failed_, as House put it, because his team lost interest when the older doctor went mad and had to be committed to the asylum, _not _because the neurologist didn't have the knowledge and skill. Why couldn't someone shoot _him_ and put everyone else out of their misery, Foreman thought. Why should others' lives be endangered because of that egotistical, crazy as a loon asshole?

It took Foreman a moment to come up with an answer. "A secondary infection."

House rolled his eyes and sniped, "_Du-uh_! An intern could have got _that_ one. What _kind_ of infection? Here's a hint: check his medical history back to, oh, let's say, a year ago."

A frown of confusion crossed Foreman's brow. He was getting sick and tired of House's games. The neurologist wasn't one of his 'ducklings' anymore. Cuddy had hired him to supervise House and keep him out of trouble, but the older doctor had difficulty remembering that.

"He had pneumonia," Foreman answered glibly. House looked at him expectantly and then began to frown again the longer he waited. Foreman didn't know what else the diagnostician was looking for.

House sighed, tapping out a rhythm on the floor with his cane impatiently and then gave up waiting.

"He had _bacterial_ pneumonia," House said slowly as if he was speaking to an idiot, "caused by _Streptococcus pneumoniae_. This kid's idiot parents probably failed to give him antibiotics in favor of some tree-root tea. His immune system was boosted by herbals and helped put down the pneumonia but not eliminate it. Certain rogue bacteria, Christopher Columbus types, set sail for India and ended up in his brain instead, waiting for his immune system to be compromised (thanks to the viral meningitis)and then these opportunistic _S. pneumoniae_ did the nasty, were fruitful and multiplied, made babies…you get the idea. Start him on Claforan IV push. If it hasn't gone too far, Kirk, here, might see his next birthday. It's a good thing I was around."

Foreman scowled at House as the older doctor turned to leave.

"House," the neurologist said, stopping him.

"What?"

"The shooter went after the wrong guy," Foreman told him coldly. "Instead of Taub he should have blasted a hole in that over-inflated skull of _yours_. The rest of us would be a little safer."

House gave him an indecipherable look, one that gave Foreman a chill, like the older doctor was scanning his soul for something.

"That's interesting. What, you think Cuddy will drop the department back to your incompetent hands if I'm dead?" the diagnostician asked him suspiciously. "That's the best argument I've heard yet for staying alive."

House turned and limped away, leaving Foreman to boil in his own juices.

1 Translation: "Do you understand?"

2 Translation: "I must sound so foolish!"

3 Translation: "Come here, darling!"

4 Translation: "I love you, Mom. I was so afraid!"


	18. Chapter 18

**Reconciliations: A House M.D. Story**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its concept, current story line and characters past and current are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

A/N: I'm trying to work in a police investigation of what's going on. I hope it's effective. If you have any ideas, let me know! I'm always encouraged by your reviews so please remember to do so!

Songs which helped inspire this chapter include: "I Fought the Law" by Green Day and "I Trust in You" by Skillet.

**Chapter Eighteen**

When the detectives arrived at her room, Chloe was playing a game of Rook1 with Sara and Wendy on the mobile tray table. She was waiting for her doctor to find the time to come see her and run a few tests to evaluate whether or not she could be discharged that afternoon. Wendy had suspected that there may be a lot of waiting around and had brought the card game, nicknamed by Sara as 'Baptist Bridge', to keep the teenager occupied. It was a school day but Sara had been so keyed up worrying about her mother that Chloe thought it would be best to allow her to take off the whole day from classes and start the weekend early.

Sara finished the last trick by placing the Rook card on the top of the others, taking Chloe's red fourteen with the lowest trump card possible. It earned her thirty-five big points and she grinned proudly as she raked the pile towards her.

"I _knew_ you had that," Chloe told her with a sigh. "I didn't think it was in the dummy."

Wendy frowned. "Well I don't think there's any doubt that you made your bid, Sara."

"You should know better than to play the master," Sara told them, smirking. "I win twice as many times as Mom does."

Chloe gave her a look of mock-consternation. "I'm better with call-partners." The chaplain was greatly relieved to see Sara relaxed and enjoying herself, even if it meant her mother had to have her butt kicked in the process.

A knock on the glass door got Chloe's attention, hoping that it was a doctor. Instead there were two men, Mutt and Jeff-like figures2, standing in the doorway with the door partially opened. From the way they were dressed Chloe knew they were cops even though they weren't displaying their badges. She had wondered how long it would take before they got around to questioning her.

"Hello," Chloe addressed them, "Can I help you?"

The smaller, darker man spoke. "Dr. LaSalle?"

"Yes," she confirmed. Sara and Wendy's eyes were watching the strangers curiously.

"We're detectives from the Princeton police department Homicide division. I' m Detective Molonitny and this is my partner Detective Hunt. Could we speak with you?"

Chloe sighed silently. She nodded and told them to come in. She turned to Wendy and Sara. "Wendy, would you mind taking Sara elsewhere for me? This may not be something I want her around for."

"Hello," Sara said, frowning at her mother. "I'm sitting right here!"

Chloe ignored her. Wendy Brand nodded knowingly and put a hand on the teenager's shoulder.

"Let's go Sara," the pastor's wife said with a smile. "We'll go get a cinnamon bun from the cafeteria. I happen to know that the ones here are extra sticky."

Sara shook her head and was about to protest when Chloe gave her The Look. With a sigh the thirteen year old crawled off the end of the hospital bed, disgruntled. "I'm not a baby, you know."

"We know," Wendy assured her as she led the girl out of the room. The taller, fairer detective watched the teenager with an amused smile as she shuffled her feet resistantly past the detectives on their way out.

"She thinks she's thirty," Chloe told the detectives with a wry smile. "Have a seat, gentlemen. I think there's a stool over by the sink there, if you like."

The men sat gratefully. Molonitny smiled. "I have a fifteen year old, I understand. Mitch here has a two year old boy so he's got the attitude to look forward to."

"Lucky you," Chloe told him. She knew that Molonitny was making small talk, making note of their similarities, to get her to relax and trust them. Therapists often did the same thing with their patients to encourage them to be open and honest with them. She had used the technique many times herself when she was still working as a psychologist in Quebec.

"I think you know what we're here about, Dr. LaSalle," Molonitny told her, turning serious.

Chloe nodded cautiously. "I believe so. Before we start, I would appreciate it if you would call me Chloe. I'm more comfortable with that."

"Of course," the senior detective acknowledged with a nod. The chaplain noticed that Hunt had pulled out a notepad and pen to take notes. She wanted to aid the investigation into what was happening but also had an uneasy feeling about talking to them. She wasn't sure why, but a red flag was flying.

"Chloe," Molonitny said, "How long have you been working here at PPTH?"

"I began here Monday of this week," she answered.

"So you don't know the other staff here very well, yet?"

"No, obviously I haven't had much of an opportunity yet," Chloe told him, forcing a smile. "I've made some acquaintances and a couple of friends at this point." She wasn't going to volunteer personal information unless she felt it was relevant.

Molonitny nodded. "Of course, of course. How well do you know Dr. House?"

"I met him yesterday," she replied. "I guess I'm most familiar with him than anyone else here because I've spent the most time with him."

"Oh?" Hunt spoke up. "Why is that?"

Chloe wondered if she had given away her feelings for House in her expression somehow. She was concentrating on being impassive.

"He is the Doctor of Record for a patient I was assigned to," she told them matter-of-factly. "I was required to gain his authorization to access this patient to perform my duties."

"The patient is sixteen-year-old Kirk Gartner, correct?"

"Correct," Chloe confirmed with a nod.

"What are those responsibilities you were to perform?" Molonitny asked her.

"In the case of this patient, it was to anoint and pray for his healing as requested by his parents."

Hunt was scribbling quickly. "That wouldn't have taken very long, would it? Getting Dr. House's authorization, that is."

"No," Chloe agreed, "it didn't."

"So out of an entire day you spent only a few minutes with him but he is the person you've spent the most time with here?" the older detective asked, frowning slightly.

Chloe exhaled forcefully out of her nose. She didn't like the direction this was going. "I also acted as a mediator between Dr. House and his patient's family."

"'As a mediator'?" Molonitny echoed, raising an eyebrow. "Was there some form of conflict between them?"

"There was a conflict of personality," the chaplain answered, sighing. "Dr. House felt strongly about the fact that the patient's parents had been unaware of their son's symptoms before he became as ill as he was which required hospitalization. The Gartners were offended by the implications of some of his comments and, yes, there was the potential for conflict. I helped prevent the conflict by solving misunderstandings in communication and clarifying their positions."

"When did this occur?"

"Shortly after I met with Dr. House for the authorization," Chloe said. "I had just finished the anointing when Dr. House arrived to check on his patient." She imagined crossing her fingers behind her back. It wasn't a lie, exactly, but Chloe believed that House had shown up at the ICU more to observe what she was doing with the anointing and to make sure she didn't do anything strange or manipulative than to check on Kirk's status. "Dr. House expressed his displeasure with the Gartners at the apparent lack of attention and concern for their son."

"We've been talking to other members of the staff," Molonitny told her mildly, "and we've been told by almost everybody that Dr. House has a less than stellar bedside manner with his patients and their families. Was this an example of that?"

Chloe looked at the senior detective coldly. "I have no personal knowledge of Dr. House's history of interaction in that regard, so I can't answer to that. My observation has been that he is very forward and blunt about things he feels are important and he felt it was important that the parents know that he saw their ignorance of their son's physical decline as a form of neglect. There is more to being a doctor than seeing to it that only the physical ailments of his patient are attended to."

"We've been told that he has an abrasive personality and frequently has conflicts with people, patients and their families and other staff alike," Hunt told her, pausing with his note taking. "Would that be a fair description of the man?"

Chloe couldn't help but frown. It seemed strange to her to be focusing on House's interpersonal relationship skills when it was obvious that the problem they were supposed to be focusing on was that the diagnostician and his associates were being targeted for harm.

"As I already told you," she told the detectives with annoyance, "I haven't known Dr. House long enough to answer that question. I can tell you that people who are assertive and speak their minds without hesitation are often mistaken as being 'abrasive' or even aggressive. My impression is that Dr. House has very high medical standards for himself and those he works with, which I think is a positive trait as far as the well-being of his patients is concerned. He appears to be impatient with those who do not meet his standards. Perhaps that is in part one of the reasons why some members of the staff view him as abrasive."

Molonitny must have sensed her rising indignation with their questions, because he sat forward towards her and talked softly, almost confidentially. "We're not here to malign Dr. House, Chloe. We have reason to believe that someone is targeting his employees and friends probably in retaliation for something House did that offended this person. We're trying to get an idea as to how likely it is that we're right."

Chloe regarded them suspiciously and didn't bother trying to hide it. "As I said, I do not have an answer for you concerning that. You would have better luck talking to his team members and his associates who have known him much longer than I have."

"Fair enough." Molonitny agreed, sitting back in his seat again to give the impression that he was also going to back off with the intensity of his questions. Chloe wasn't fooled by that. "How else were you in contact with Dr. House yesterday?"

She realized that it was entirely likely someone had told them that she had been seen leaving the hospital with the diagnostician at lunch. Perhaps if she cooperated a little bit more than she currently was their questions would move along to what she could testify to, that is, the attack on House and her in the restaurant parking lot.

"Alright," the chaplain said with a sigh. "The truth is, after I acted as a negotiator between Dr. House and the Gartners, Dr. House asked me out to lunch."

Hunt exchanged a furtive glance with Molonitny. "Was this business-related, or a date?" the younger detective asked.

"I suppose it was a date," Chloe admitted with a nod. "We went to a bar and grill just a couple of minutes from the hospital. Connoly's Bar and Grill."

"Yes," Molonitny acknowledged. "I know of it. So what did the two of you talk about on this date?"

"Normal things," she answered, shrugging, "Like our backgrounds, our likes and dislikes. You know, small talk. Nothing special. It was an opportunity to get to know each other a little better."

"Was this where Dr. Chase was drinking before he died?"

"Yes," Chloe confirmed. "Dr. Chase was in the bar and Dr. House—Greg—and I were in the dining room. A loud argument between Chase and the bartender began. Recognizing that it involved one of his team members Greg went over to try to calm his Fellow down and get him a cab to go home. It was just after that when Chase passed out. I came over to the bar to see if I could be of any assistance. I helped Greg lay Chase on the floor and that's when he went into cardiac arrest. An ambulance had already been called but hadn't arrived yet. I assisted Greg with performing CPR on Chase until the ambulance arrived with a defibrillator which Greg used to restart his heart. Greg went with Chase to the hospital on the ambulance and I returned to the hospital by foot to meet them there."

"But Dr. Chase died in the ER," Molonitny asked, "didn't he?"

"Yes," Chloe said sadly. "He died from accidental alcohol poisoning. He had paid the bartender to serve him drinks after the point where the bartender should have cut him off. It wasn't until it was too late that Chase finally was refused anything further to drink."

"Dr. Wilson told officers last night that Dr. House suspects that narcotics were also involved," Hunt told her. "Do you know anything about that?"

"Yes," Chloe conceded and then proceeded to describe to them the incident with the stolen Oxycontin and how House was accused of stealing it, how House knew that it had been taken by Chase because of the Percocet in Chase's pocket, and how she got involved with helping the diagnostician to prove his innocence before the police became involved. "So we found the missing Oxycontin in Chase's car. Just as we did, two thugs masquerading as police handcuffed us and tried to kidnap us with the help of a third man driving a white paneled van. If it wasn't for Greg breaking free with the help with a few bystanders and helping me, I wouldn't be here right now talking to you. As it was, I ended up with a concussion from the brawl that ensued."

Molonitny nodded and paused a moment. "We got the report from the officers that secured the scene," he told her. "Dr Chase's car has been impounded to be searched for evidence. We also have the Oxycontin at headquarters. Your story is corroborated by what witnesses on the scene reported and what Dr. House told officers last night. I can tell you that at this time the hospital hasn't laid charges on Dr. House for the theft and I really doubt that they will. Legally the quantity taken and found in Chase's car is not enough to warrant charges of trafficking and although Oxycontin is a controlled substance, it's not illegal so I doubt possession charges will be pursued, either."

Chloe sighed in relief. "That's good to hear. Greg has enough to deal with right now without having to worry about drug charges as well."

"What do you mean by that, Chloe?" Hunt spoke up, interested. He raised an eyebrow.

_Oh oh_, Chloe said to herself. _I think I said too much_. "I mean," she explained, thinking on the fly, "These attacks on his team members has him very concerned, of course. It's very stressful."

"We can imagine," Molonitny assured her. "Chloe, we know about Dr. House's past abuse of narcotics and that he was just released from rehab for his addiction. Drugs have a tendency to bring with them unsavory relationships—such as associations with dealers or committing crimes in order to be able to obtain the narcotics. Has Dr. House said anything to you about any such interactions he has been involved in before rehab or perhaps even since?"

"No," she answered sincerely. "We never discussed that aspect of his addiction. Since he hasn't used since before he entered rehab I don't think he has had contact with these 'unsavory' people you refer to, Detective. Do you think it may be someone in the drug world that's doing this?"

Molonitny shrugged and smiled, "It's always a possibility. We try to look at every angle when investigating crimes of this type."

Chloe nodded in understanding, "Everybody is a suspect until there is enough evidence to exclude them. "

"That's right," Molonitny told her with a grin. "I only have one question left to ask, at least for now. Did you get a good look at the suspect in the van last night? Dr. House was able to give us a good description of the two that attacked you but he was unable to provide us with a description of the third man."

The chaplain searched her memory of the event. Everything had occurred so quickly at the time and it was dark outside so her vision was likely no better than House's and she was only close up to the third man for a few seconds during which she was fighting for her life.

"I can't give you a very good description I'm afraid," she told them regretfully. "He had brown hair, average build, I guess. He wore a scarf over his face so I can't describe it to you. There was something about the van that stood out, however."

"Like what?" Hunt asked her quickly.

"The smell," Chloe answered, screwing up her face in distaste. "It smelled like aftershave or cologne. It wafted out of the back door, and it was very strong, like somebody spilled a whole bottle of it inside the van."

"Could you tell what kind of cologne? A name perhaps?" Molonitny asked, and Chloe could see a spark of excitement in the older detective's eyes. There was something significant there.

Chloe concentrated. It was something she had smelled before, but not for a long time. It was on the tip of her tongue. Suddenly it came to her.

"Drakkar Noir,"3 she told them with a satisfied smiled. "I know because it was the same kind my older brother wore back when I was in high school. He always thought he was so cool because he wore Drakkar Noir."

Molonitny looked excitedly at Hunt. "We need to obtain a sample of that cologne and a few distracters and see if Dr. Hadley selects the same scent."

"Dr. Hadley?" Chloe asked, confused. "She is one of Greg's Fellows. Has _she_ had an encounter with the same men?"

"Dr. Hadley was attacked last night in Dr. House's office," Hunt informed her. "Her throat was slashed by someone who ransacked the room and took Dr. House's computer tower. She also stated that her assailant wore strong cologne but she was unable to put a name on it. It's possible it's the same scent--if so, it may be the same guy."

Chloe gasped, feeling very nauseous all of a sudden. First Chase dies from an accident, then Hadley is viciously attacked and wounded, then House and she are attacked and nearly abducted and finally Taub is shot and killed on his way in to work. It was no wonder House had been in the fragile emotional state he was in when he visited her earlier that morning and why he was considering returning to the psychiatric hospital. Knowing now what she did, she was a little surprised that he had been sober.

"_Seigneur ont la pitié sur nous_!"4 The chaplain said softly, her eyes gleaming wetly.

"I'm sorry," Molonitny said, looking at her, "what was that you said?"

Chloe shook her head and didn't bother to answer. She needed to talk to House and Wilson. She had to know what all was going on with the diagnostician and his friend because she wouldn't be able to relax at all if she didn't. In the back of her mind was the nagging fear that whoever these people were, if they knew they had failed at the dispatching of Hadley, House and her they may try again. She was frightened for her own safety, yes, but she was more concerned about the others, especially Sara and House. Who knew who would be targeted next?

House stood next to the glass wall separating the hospital corridor from the Differential room. The blinds had been parted so that the wall was free of any encumbrances. His office was still taped up and out of bounds for anyone but the police, although it was empty, completely devoid of everything that had been in there the morning before, but the Differential room was open for business. He didn't really care about that right now, however. He had a puzzle to solve, perhaps one of the most important puzzles that he had ever confronted. If he solved it, his sobriety and sanity had a chance of remaining intact. If not, well, he didn't want to even consider that just then.

House had abandoned the white board because of its limited size and decided to use the wall, instead. It was large enough to cover all of the bases. With a thick, black dry erase pen, he set to work setting up a grid-like chart where he would list the symptoms (events), patients (victims and potential victims), possible infectious agents (suspects and their motives) and finally, hopefully, a diagnosis (the name or names of the criminal(s) perpetrating the crimes. What the treatment of the criminal disease would be would be determined by the courts and the spin-doctors who worked there.

Writing was difficult because he was right-handed but only his left hand could hold a pen. He was dissatisfied with the legibility but it would have to do. His leg was already killing him for being on it so much that morning after having over-taxed it the day before. What he needed was a secretary.

He tried recruiting a janitor as he walked down the corridor past House pushing a mop and bucket, but to no avail. He would have to slog it out himself.

That was, however, until he saw a certain Pain in the Ass walking his way with her earphones crammed into her ears and her IPod playing at a deafening volume. What she was doing outside his office instead of with her mother, he didn't know, but he was glad to see her all the same.

House limped out into the corridor and stood in the thirteen-year-old's path. When she was close enough he yanked the earphones out.

"Hey, hands off!" Sara LaSalle told him angrily. "What are you doing here?"

House glared at her. "I work here. What are you doing here? Why aren't you annoying your mother right now?"

"I don't annoy my mother," she told him, putting a hand on her hip. "She _likes_ having me around."

"Well," House retorted sarcastically, "it's either put up with one's young or eat them, I suppose. You're lucky you have a patient mother."

Sara looked up at him, bewildered. "You're strange, did you know that?"

"_Takes one to know one_," he whined childishly. "Seriously, why aren't you with your mom?"

Shrugging, Sara met his gaze fearlessly. _God, she's like her mother that way_! House thought. She was fairer complexioned than Chloe and there was only the slightest physical resemblance with her, but some of the girl's mannerisms were identical to her mother's. The way she tilted her head, the penetrating intensity of her eyes, the way she stood straight and tall instead of slouching.

"The cops are talking with my mom right now."

"Where's your _baby_sitter?" House asked, putting emphasis on the 'baby' in the word. Sara's face clouded over and her eyes became thin slits.

"She's not my babysitter and right now she's probably hunting for me," the teen told him through gritted teeth. "She took me to the cafeteria to keep me occupied—bor-ring! So when she went to the bathroom I gave her the slip. Actually, I came up here on purpose. I thought you and I needed to discuss certain rules when it comes to my mom."

In spite of himself House was amused by the teen's behavior. She kind of reminded him of himself. She was intelligent, sarcastic, mouthy and determined. It meant, however, that he was going to have to show her that there could only be one Alpha-dog in the pack, and it wasn't going to be _her_. It would also be his opportunity to get her writing on the wall for him so he could sit down and put his leg up.

"Fine," he told her with a frown. "We'll talk…but you have to work for me at the same time. If not, I call your mom's nursing unit and rat on you."

"Work for you? What is that supposed to mean?"

House handed her the pen and guided her into the Differential room. "Come with me, Pinta."

Sara shook her head and frowned. "Who's Pinta?"

"You," House told her without explanation. He pulled a couple of chairs away from the long table. Sitting in one he propped up his bad leg on the other with a groan. "Your job is to be my amanuensis."

Sara shifted her weight from one leg to the other and tilted her head a little to the right. "What's an 'ee-men-you-ensis'?"

"It's pronounced 'ah-MAN-you-En-sis'," House corrected her. "It's Greek for 'slave'."

"Really?" she asked, making a sour face.

House sighed and shook his head. "No. It's a type of assistant who writes things out for someone else as they dictate it."

Sara stopped frowning and nodded. "Oh, like a scribe. Give me one good reason why I should be your scribe?"

_Scribe_? House thought to himself. _How many thirteen-year-olds even know that the word 'scribe' exists_?

"Because if you don't," House threatened, "I'll rat you out to your mom."

Sara put both hands on her hips now and scowled. "You'll do that anyway."

House smirked. She was absolutely right. It was going to be difficult conning this kid. She was too smart for her own good. "You're right," he said, "eventually. For the time being your secret is safe so long as you do exactly what I tell you to do."

"Do you treat everyone this way?"

"Only the people I'm big enough or smart enough to manipulate," he told her honestly. "Now, get to work. I'll tell you what to write in each box. Write it _legibly_. I have to be able to read it."

Turning to the wall, Sara positioned herself to begin to write, commenting, "You're a doctor and you're telling _me_ to write legibly?"

"Shut up and write," House told her. For the next half-hour he dictated to the teen and she filled in the chart as instructed; to reach the top she had to climb on a chair. She had excellent printing skills and complained surprisingly seldom. Every so often she would fire questions at the diagnostician, usually pertaining to him, her mother, and what his intentions were concerning her. If she hadn't been a girl, House would have sworn he was being interrogated by Chloe's father. He didn't mind, though; talking with Sara helped to distract him from his negative thoughts and feelings.

"What kind of person are you, besides being a jerk?" Sara asked him as she scrawled. "Are you a drinker?"

"Used to be," he admitted. He didn't mention that he was craving a cold bottle of beer just then.

"You don't anymore?"

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"Lately I've been asking myself the same question," House admitted. "'Jealousy' has an 'a' after the 'e'."

She fixed the word and wrote down a few more as he dictated them.

"What about drugs?" Sara asked, turning to look at the doctor. There was suspicion in her eyes.

"I'm an opiate addict," House said bluntly, actually surprising himself. 'Pinta' was more like her mother than she appeared—she was able to make a person feel comfortable enough to talk in spite of her attitude. "Actually, I'm a recovering opiate addict."

"That means you've kicked the habit and aren't using anymore, right?" she asked, cocking her head and searching his face.

"Correct."

"Opiates are drugs like morphine and codeine, or heroin, right?"

"Yup."

"Which one did you use?"

"Vicodin," House answered. "It's a painkiller."

"Like Tylenol threes?" Sara clarified.

"Yes, only stronger." The doctor nodded towards the wall. "Keep writing."

Sara sighed and turned back around. It wasn't long before she was interrogating him again. House repressed a smile. She was nothing if not tenacious.

"Did you start taking Vicodin because of your leg?" the teen asked him, glancing at his thigh, which the doctor had been rubbing absently the entire time. Upon the mention of it, House stopped rubbing.

"Yes," he told her a little more cautiously.

"Were you in an accident or something?"

"No. I had a blood clot that stopped the blood from getting to parts of my thigh. It's called an 'infarction'. Tissue began to die and had to be removed."

Sara nodded. "My _Grand-papa_ had an infarction in his heart once. He nearly died. Now he has to stay away from smoking, eat foods he hates and go for walks every day."

"Does he do it?"

She shook her head with a smirk, "Not always. Sometimes he sneaks to the machine shop when he's supposed to be getting exercise and smokes instead."

"How do you know?"

"Because I caught him once," Sara grinned. "He promised to by me a horse if I didn't tell Grand-maman. I named him Sterling because he's dapple-grey."

House couldn't help but smile. After all, what was a little extortion among family?

Sara sobered quickly as she remembered that she was supposed to be checking him out. "What made you stop?"

The doctor shrugged. He didn't want to tell her about his hallucinations; he'd never pass the 'test' if he did, but he knew she was sharp and would catch him if he tried to lie.

"It was affecting my ability to be a good doctor," House told her. "It was ruining my life."

"For real?"

"For real."

Sara nodded thoughtfully and then turned back to the wall and wrote for a while. The next question to be thrown out was from House.

"Do _you_ use drugs or alcohol?"

"Shh-ya! Like I'd tell you! You'd go straight to my mom with it."

"In other words, you have," House concluded with a nod. "Look, I won't squeal. What kind?"

Sara turned away from the wall again and searched his body language. She must have been convinced that he was telling her the truth because she gave him an answer. "Pot a couple of times. I tried E once at a friend's birthday party. I guess I drink more than I use drugs."

The doctor appreciated her honesty. "When was the last time you took drugs or drank?"

She hesitated a moment, biting her lip, trying to decide just how far she could trust him.

"Actually, I drank last night," Sara confessed _sotto voce_. "After I found out my mom was in the hospital."

House nodded without commenting right away. Her confession, along with the frightened look in her eyes when she said the word 'hospital' spoke more clearly than her words. He recalled what Chloe had told him about how Sara had witnessed the abuse her mother received at the hands of her father, had experienced some of it herself, and had been the one to find her mother dying at the bottom of the stairs followed by months of watching her mother fight to get her life back. This kid had seen more ugliness in her thirteen years than anyone deserved to see in a lifetime.

"Where did you get the alcohol?"

"I have some stashed away," she told him. "There's this ninth grader who gets it from his older brother and then he sells it to people at school."

Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, House contemplated this for a moment. "Hearing that your mom was in the hospital really scared you, didn't it?"

Sara tried to shrug nonchalantly but it wasn't convincing. "I guess. I suppose you're going to lecture me now about the drugs and alcohol, right?"

"That would be a little hypocritical," the doctor admitted. "Unless you consider the fact that I've been to the point with it where I know it's not the best way to deal with your problems. It feels damned good at the time, but the high goes away and you have to keep taking it. Why didn't you talk to someone about it instead?"

"I'd just get patted on the head and told not to worry, that God was taking care of her, that I should pray," the teen told him wryly. "I guess it's good advice but it's not very helpful when I get really upset."

House nodded. His objections to religion aside, he understood all too well what she was saying. If you're scared silly to the point where you're panicking, you can barely think, much less think objectively and focus.

"Besides," Sara added, looking at a spot on the floor, "There's no one I trust enough to talk to."

"Have you ever thought of talking to a counselor?"

"I saw one every two weeks before we moved here," Sara admitted, "but I haven't found one here yet. Besides, most shrinks are morons. They usually have no clue where I'm coming from and want me to take pills that make me feel like I'm trying to think through a fog."

House stared thoughtfully at her for a few moments, rubbing his chin. Should he? Was he in any position to? Would Chloe approve? Did he want to take it on?

"You're talking to me," he pointed out, "and you don't even like me."

A shy smile crossed her lips but she failed to meet his eyes. "'Cause I know that if you snitch on me, I can snitch on you."

House smirked. "Sorry to burst your bubble, but your mom already knows that I'm an addict. You're going to have to find something better than that to blackmail me with."

Sara looked up at him now with eyes that savored a challenge. "Don't worry. You're bound to screw up eventually."

"Undoubtedly," he admitted with a nod. "Look, I can be a jerk, no question. I'm surly, rude and pushy, all things _you_ can identify with. The next time you want to take something to feel better, you can call me, if you want. I'll give you my number before you leave, and the only way I'll tell anyone about what you tell me is if you're going to be in danger if I don't. If nothing else we can distract each other by exchanging insults."

The teen sighed, searching his eyes and face just like her mother did. It was uncanny. "I don't know. I'll think about it." She paused and then changed the subject. "Have you ever been married?"

"Nope."

"No sane woman would have you, eh?"

"Your mother likes me."

"I said _sane_ woman. Mothers are _never_ sane."

"Good point," he agreed.

"Do you have any illegitimate kids running around somewhere?"

"God, I hope not," House smirked, earning a priceless glare from her. "Do you?"

"Very funny," Sara sneered. "Have you ever had a serious relationship with a girlfriend?"

"Once."

"Did you ever _hit_ her?"

The question was said with the same tone and volume as the previous ones, but its weight was considerably greater. It was not an unexpected question, House decided. This girl loved her mother and had assumed the responsibility to be her protector, to make sure that she never again made the same mistake in picking a man as she had with the girl's father. It was a very heavy mantle for such a young person to carry.

"No," he assured her. "I only hit men, and only if I think they deserve it."

Sara sighed. "I'm being serious."

"So am I," House insisted earnestly. "I would never hurt your mother on purpose. What happened to her was wrong. Nobody deserves to be treated that way."

Sara met his gaze. "Especially my mom. She's put up with enough crap in her life. I'm not going to allow some horny jerk to come in and hurt her again." It was a statement and a warning rolled up in one.

The doctor couldn't hide a small smile at that. "Well, I _am_ a horny jerk, but I have absolutely no intention of hurting her, _ever_."

"You better not," Sara told him, and her soft words held an unspoken threat. "So is that what you're after from mom? Are you going to get her to have sex with you and then dump her?"

House's eyes narrowed as he appraised the thirteen-year-old. "Your mom is incredibly beautiful and I'd be lying if I said that I didn't want to have sex with her—but that's not the only reason I like your mom. She's smart, strong, compassionate and courageous. I enjoy just talking to her. I don't know where your mom and I are going as far as a relationship is concerned, but I'm not going to _do_ her and then take off. Has someone done that to her before and that's why you asked the question?"

"No," the teen said. "I don't think mom has even been on a date since she left Joseph."

"You call your dad by his first name?"

"He donated sperm," Sara retorted coldly, "but he has never been a dad."

"Does your mom know you feel that way?" House asked, arching an eyebrow.

Sara shrugged, frowning. "She knows and she always tells me not to talk about him that way. It's stupid! Why does she defend that loser after what he did to her?"

It was a legitimate question to which House had no answer. It was possible Chloe never wanted to be accused of turning Sara against her father or risk engendering any kind of future resentment between mother and daughter.

"I don't know," he told her simply.

The two stared at each other for a long moment, establishing an understanding between them. He wouldn't do anything to hurt Chloe and Sara wouldn't cut his balls off. It was good.

"Enough loafing off," House told her grumpily, breaking the silence. He pointed at the wall with his cane. "Get back to work, Pinta. We're not done yet!"

"Why do you keep calling me Pinta?"

"Because it suits you," he told her. "Pen. Wall. Write."

Sara scowled at that but there was the hint of a smile tugging on her lips. Instead of risking it appearing in front of him, she turned her back to him and faced the wall again. House began to dictate again but stopped mid-sentence. Sara looked away from the wall to see why.

Wilson stood in the doorway, leaning against the jam, his arms folded across his chest. He had a bemused expression on his face, but his eyes looked very serious. House knew he had a _lot_ of explaining to do.

"Hi!" House greeted him, trying to appear blissfully ignorant of the cause of friend's ire. "What took you so long? I thought you'd never arrive."

1 Rook is a trademark of Parker Brothers.

2 Mutt and Jeff © Bud Fisher, 1907.

3 Drakkar Noir is a registered trademark belonging to designer Guy Laroche.

4 Translation: "Lord have mercy on us!"


	19. Chapter 19

**Reconciliations: A House M.D. Story**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its concept, current story line and characters past and current are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

A/N: This chapter lets us take a look into House's growth in spite of his depression, especially where it applies to learning how to reach out to others. Also, it shows that House has a lot more courage than he thinks he has and than his 'friends' think he has—he just needs someone to believe in it.

Songs that helped inspire this chapter include: "More than Useless" by Reliant K and "It Will Be Me" by Faith Hill.

**Chapter Nineteen**

Wilson stood in the doorway of the Differential room, his arms folded across his chest. What he saw honestly amazed him. A teenage girl was writing on the wall what Greg House, Attending Misanthrope and certified child-hater, was telling her to write. Instead of finding him moping in the depths of depression he was exchanging barbs with the pretty girl in what almost appeared to be a game. Most annoyingly, he was pretending to have no clue why the oncologist was staring daggers at him.

"Don't 'hi' me," Wilson told him with barely restrained anger; he didn't want to blow up in front of the girl. Who the hell was she, anyway? Why was she in House's office doing his bidding, and what on earth was it that the older doctor was having her write? "Haven't you heard that they outlawed child slavery over two hundred years ago?"

"I'm not a child!" the girl told him indignantly.

"She's not a baby either," House told Wilson, straight-faced. "Pinta, tell him who your mom is."

"If you keep calling me Pinta, I'm going to start calling you Fido," 'Pinta' snapped at House.

"Just tell him," House told her, rolling his eyes.

"Will somebody explain to me what is going on?" Wilson asked, exasperated and confused.

"She's Sara LaSalle," the diagnostician told him after sighing. "Chloe's brat."

"You're a dolt," she whipped back at him without skipping a beat.

Wilson was surprised. He had learned that Chloe had a daughter the night before when he had called her for help. The chaplain had told him she would be willing if she could arrange for a babysitter. He had pictured her daughter as a five year old, not a young teenager. Chloe didn't look nearly old enough to be her mother.

Stepping into the room, Wilson approached the girl to shake her hand. "It's very nice to meet you, Sara. I'm Dr. Wilson."

As Sara went to shake his hand she looked over at House and said very slowly, as if talking to a toddler, "See? This is how you shake a hand, Fido. Or, in your case, a paw." Sara shook Wilson's hand with a small smile.

The oncologist couldn't hide his amusement. In response to what the teen had said, House stuck out his tongue at her. It was like Junior High all over again.

"He's _my_ friend," House informed her.

She glared back at him and smirked, "You mean you actually _have_ one?"

"Yes," House sneered snottily, "That would be one more than _you_."

Despite how it appeared, Wilson saw a dynamic between the two of them that had an undercurrent of affection. They both were too proud or too scared to admit that they actually liked the other so to hide it in the open, so to speak, they taunted and insulted each other. He especially noticed how the diagnostician's eyes seemed to light up every time she threw a barb at him; he seemed to be enjoying it, and more importantly, there was vitality in the man that had been missing the night before.

"So why do you have her scrawling all over the wall for you?" Wilson asked taking a closer look at the grid the teen was filling in according to House's directions.

"Because I'm handicapped and I can't do it myself," House told him, lifting his casted right hand as a reminder.

"You're handicapped, alright," Sara smirked, "_mentally_ handicapped. It's alright, _Fido_. It's not your fault you're a dumb dog."

"Keep it up," House growled threateningly, "and I'll use your leg as a fire hydrant, _Pinta_."

The oncologist interrupted the verbal fencing, turning to the girl. "Does your mother know what you're doing, Sara?"

"She doesn't even know I'm here," Sara told him, smiling smugly.

"Don't you think you should tell her so she doesn't begin to worry?" Wilson asked, sounding like a school teacher talking to a recalcitrant pupil.

House sobered. "He's right. You've been here over half-an-hour. You should get your butt back to your mom's room. Besides, Dr. Wilson wants to kick my ass and he doesn't want any witnesses."

"Can I help?" Sara asked the oncologist, dead-pan. "Please?"

"Sorry," Wilson told her with a shrug. "You have to have known him for over ten years before you can be involved." He nodded his head in the direction of the door.

Sara sighed in disgust, tossing the pen to Wilson. "Fine, I'm going. He can boss _you_ around for a while."

"I'm used to it," the oncologist informed her wryly. "Tell your mom that I'll be down to see her in a little while, okay?"

"Whatever," she replied, making to leave. Before she did House remembered something.

"Hold up," he said to the teen. He looked around for a slip of paper on the table and in his pockets but couldn't find one. He turned to Wilson.

"Do you have a scrap of paper I can write on?"

Wilson checked his pockets and pulled a slip out of one of them. "Just this receipt. You can have it." He handed it to House.

"Pinta, hand me that pen on the table," the diagnostician told her. Reluctantly she did so, and he scribbled something on the back of the receipt and then held it out her. "You know what to do with it," he said cryptically.

Sara took the slip from him and stuffed it into her pocket without looking at it. She walked towards the door and said as she left, "Later, Fido."

Wilson watched her leave, bewildered, and then looked at his friend. "What was that all about?"

House shrugged. "I like them young," he quipped and then pointed to the wall with his cane. "You're my new amanuensis."

"I'm not doing anything until you explain to me why you took off this morning and scared the hell out of me!"

"It's not my fault that you're a lousy chaperone," the older doctor grumbled.

"When you said in your note that Taub was dead, I was afraid I was going to find _you_ dead," Wilson said with an edge of anger in his voice. He wasn't certain whether the diagnostician did it on purpose or not but he seemed to have no clue or concern how much of a negative impact his impulsivity had on the oncologist. No one was more important to him than the irascible doctor looking at him, but sometimes he wondered how much longer he was going to allow himself to be manipulated by him.

"I was tempted," House told him softly. "It scared the hell out of me, then I talked with Chloe, and she helped me see that I do have certain reasons to stick things out. Killing myself isn't going to stop the asshole that's targeting the people I know. It's my fault—so I have to put a stop to it." He exhaled and then said tiredly, "Wall. Write."

Wilson took a closer look at the grid that had been designed and partially filled in. It looked uncannily like a differential display, only instead of solving the puzzle of an illness, its purpose was to solve the puzzle of a crime. Along the top of the chart were three categories: alibi, motive, opportunity. Along the vertical was an unfinished list of possible suspects. It was a thorough list that included the oncologist, Cuddy, Lucas, Foreman, Chloe, Cameron, Tritter, 'loser hospital staffer', 'disgruntled patient/family'' and the diagnostician himself.

"You're a doctor," Wilson pointed out, "not a detective. What makes you think you can solve this on your own?"

"I don't," House replied. "I've got the cops bumbling around, doing the leg-work. I just have to convince them to share information with me. I can't just sit by and wait for another person to be taken out. Next time it could be you, or he'll try again on those of us he failed to kill the first time. I'll be damned if I let anyone hurt you and Chloe, or Thirteen for that matter."

"What about Cuddy?" Wilson asked. "She was targeted last night, too."

House looked at him in shock. Apparently he hadn't heard that particular piece of news yet. Wilson saw deep concern in his friend's eyes.

"What happened?" House demanded and anger laced his voice.

Wilson shrugged. "She says she went out to her car to go home last night and found that it had been smashed, beaten and spray painted with the message 'Don't you know my name?' She felt like she wasn't alone and ran back into the safety of the hospital to notify the police."

House lowered his leg off of the chair and sat forward in his seat. He looked sickened. Wilson realized he may have made a serious mistake by telling him.

"She walked to her car in the dark, late at night, without an escort after everything that's happened?" The diagnostician demanded in astonishment. "Is she completely insane?"

"You know Cuddy," the oncologist remarked. "She's stubborn, proud and fiercely independent. It probably never occurred to her that she was as vulnerable as she was until she was already out there. Thank god nothing happened to her personally but it really shook her up."

House nodded, frowning. He processed what he had just heard.

"We've got a new entry on the sub-chart," the older doctor told him, pointing with his cane again. "Victim: Dr. Lisa Cuddy—vandalism."

Wilson obligingly went to the wall and wrote it down in the appropriate space. He turned back around. "What do you suppose that means, 'Don't You Know My Name'?"

House shrugged. "It was probably a taunt challenging her to guess who it is that did it. Some sick idea of a joke."

Wilson wasn't convinced. It sounded like a question instead of a taunt. "I don't think so. He used the negative 'don't'. To me it sounds like an angry question with a message underneath, as if Cuddy should already know who he is and he's pissed off about something."

A small smile crossed the older doctor's lips. "I think you're right. I think Cuddy does know the person or persons targeting us but she doesn't realize it. If we can figure out what that hidden message is, we'll be able to figure out who left it."

"Changing the subject," Wilson said carefully. "What's happening with Mayfield? Nolan is expecting me to drop you off there this afternoon. Are you still willing to go?" He watched his friend carefully for a reaction. He saw the wheels grinding away inside the diagnostician's head as he argued internally with himself over what to do.

House sighed. "I can't work on this there. If I don't go voluntarily, however, Nolan could Baker Act me and I'll be up the creek without a paddle. Looks like I'm going to have to give him a call."

"Sounds like," Wilson agreed. "So you're saying that you are no longer a danger to yourself and aren't going to relapse? Because, quite frankly, I'd rather leave the investigation to the police than go to your funeral. In case you were wondering, that wasn't a joke."

House smirked with his mouth but not with his eyes. "I'm not going anywhere or doing anything to myself, at least not until this bastard," he nodded towards the wall, "is in jail." He perked up. "Besides, I have a date tonight with Chloe. I'd hate to stand her up."

Wilson scowled. "While we are on that subject…you broke the Code."

"_Please_!" the diagnostician said, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms. "The Code doesn't apply here."

"It _doesn't_?" the oncologist responded, astonished. "How do you figure that? I saw her first, I told you that I wanted her and _you_ were the one who encouraged me to ask her out for lunch! I called her to do that and she already _had_ plans—_with you_! I'd say the Code more than applies here! You swooped in on my woman!"

House laughed mockingly. "Your woman? If you'll recall, you said that you don't take relationship advice from me. Therefore, you can't claim that I encouraged you to take her to lunch because you cancelled that out yourself. The Code was disqualified!"

"I was joking!" Wilson protested, becoming red in the face. "You _knew_ I was joking!"

"Did I?" House asked slyly, raising an eyebrow tauntingly.

Wilson was at a loss for words. He pointed a finger at House angrily as he searched for some. "You, you, you're not getting away with it this time! This is my formal declaration of war!"

House smiled confidently. "I've already won!"

Wilson looked at him incredulously. "You've what?"

"The Goddess has fallen for her god…me."

"You've got to be kidding!" the oncologist scoffed. He acted confidently on the outside, but inside he was more than a little unsettled. "You've known each other for twenty-four hours and you think she's in love with you? Give me a break!"

"Fine," House said, "Don't believe me…even though when she kisses me she speaks how she feels so much more completely than--."

"You've kissed her?" Wilson was more than a little bit angry now. When he had told House about Chloe, he thought his friend had taken him seriously. For the first time since Amber a woman had really moved him. This wasn't a game to the oncologist.

House just looked at him with a smug smirk on his face.

"This," Wilson said with all seriousness, "is not one of your stupid games. Chloe is not just another woman to screw. You had better not be using her to feed your competitive need to out-do me."

House's smirk disappeared. He looked almost hurt by the oncologist's suggestion.

"I 'm in love with her," the older doctor said softly, completely humorless.

Wilson shook his head bitterly. "That's why you're ingratiating yourself with her daughter…you think that if the kid likes you her mother will be impressed. In truth, you can't stand kids."

Rising to his feet, House leaned heavily on his cane. His face was impassive, but his body was tensed up and his hand gripped the cane with white knuckles. His crystal blue eyes were like ice.

"Don't," he told Wilson quietly. It was a warning, but in his anger Wilson took it as a threat. The oncologist set his jaw.

"The truth hurts, doesn't it, House?"

"Yes, it often does," he answered. "But I haven't heard it come out of your mouth in the last five minutes."

Wilson could feel the Monster rattling the cage, pulling on the bars, stretching them apart.

"I think you need help, House," he told the diagnostician, his voice quavering. "One minute you're falling apart, ready to kill yourself, and the next you're having delusions again, crowing that Chloe is in love with you. The next thing you know, you'll be yelling from the mezzanine that you've slept with her too!"

House erupted in anger, slamming his cane down on the conference table with all his might. The smack was nearly deafening in the Differential room and echoed a long way down the corridor. An orderly walking past the room at that moment jumped as if a gun had gone off. A couple of staffers came running towards the room but stopped in the corridor just outside when they saw the two men facing off.

"You're going back to Mayfield," Wilson nearly yelled, "where you can't be a danger to yourself or anyone else! If you're not willing to go voluntarily, I'll call the cops myself! I can't do this anymore! I can't live in a state of terror wondering what destructive or self-destructive thing you're going to do next! Look at what happened to Chloe last night—she could have been killed trying to rescue you! If you care for her like you claim you do, don't force me to have Nolan bring you in!"

House laughed angrily and it presented itself on his face as a sneer, but his eyes were moist. His body trembled and he looked like he could begin to weep at any moment. Wilson was too furious to notice. The diagnostician lifted his cane and pointed it at Wilson, tapping the oncologist's sternum with it a couple of times before the younger man knocked it angrily away.

"You think that having me committed will get you Chloe's undying love?" the older doctor yelled, oblivious to the growing crowd watching them. "You actually think that she's that stupid? Having me rounded up will only alienate her from you!" He lowered his voice again. "I know how I've used women in the past. We're both guilty of that, Dr. Married-and-Divorced-Three-Times! Chloe is different. I _love_ her—I would never hurt her. If you think I would, then you don't know me at all!"

Wilson stared at House. He finally noticed the pain his best friend was experiencing. He had the same look in his eyes that he'd had the night before, which had disappeared and then returned with the oncologist's accusations. He didn't want to push House over the edge—but his anger and jealousy was so raw and so strong! Part of him wanted the old House back—the drug-addicted alcoholic whose bitter and manipulative ways made it much easier to be and stay angry at. He could be self-righteous over the fallen diagnostician without the guilt he now felt every time he saw the older man's brokenness.

"You really love her?" Wilson asked, feeling his rage dissipating.

House obviously didn't trust his own voice from betraying his pain. He nodded and looked down at the floor.

"But it's only been a day!"

"How long does it take to know how you feel?" House murmured. "Look, we'll call Nolan, we'll talk with him. If, after that, he still wants me to return, I'll return. But I can't do a damned thing there to protect the _two_ people I love the most. Here, I have a chance."

"But what if you can't protect us?" Wilson asked him softly. "What happens to you?"

House looked up at him and shrugged. "If something happens to either one of you, I won't care what happens to me." The diagnostician limped past Wilson and out into the corridor where the curious still remained watching the two doctors like they were a sideshow act. House headed in the direction of Wilson's office. The oncologist followed him, stopping long enough to address the onlookers.

"Don't any of you have any goddamned work to do?" he yelled.

The staffers quickly scurried away like mice in the grain shed when the lights are turned on. Wilson went to his office where House stood silently waiting for him to unlock the door.

* * *

Foreman paid for his coffee and then left the hospital cafeteria heading to the Clinic. He had six hours to work off because he had lost a bet with Chris Taub before he died and had to take on three of the former plastic surgeon's as a result. So much had happened since he made the bet that he couldn't even remember what they had been betting over. There was going to be a lot of extra work dumped onto the neurologist's shoulders now that two of three ducklings were gone. It was down once again to Thirteen and him. The only good part, if you could call it good, was that he wasn't head of the Diagnostics department this time so he didn't have to worry about making the big decisions that had cost him his relationship with Thirteen.

He went to the reception desk as soon as he arrived where a very harried receptionist sat trying to balance a constant barrage of phone calls, a long line of patients waiting to check in and a high pile of patient files to sort into some sense of order. None of that included the constant complaints from waiting people wondering how much longer it was going to take to see the doctor. Foreman looked around the waiting room in disbelief; it was wall to walk sick people everywhere the eye could see. This wasn't good, he decided, not good at all.

"Jody," he said to the overworked receptionist, "what is with all these people? Is there some pandemic outbreak that I haven't been notified about?"

"Besides the seasonal and H1N1 flus?" Jody said. "Not that I know of. Most of these people were part of a bus tour visiting the university. They all had supper together last night and by breakfast this morning began getting sick all over the place_."_

Great, Foreman thought. _Food poisoning, no doubt_. These were going to be six long hours. The Health department would have to be notified. What a headache!

"Where's Dr. Rubin?" he demanded.

He's in examination room one. Room two is already set up for business," Jody told him, handing him two file folders from the bottom of one of the many smaller piles littering her station. She turned her back on the doctor indicating that their conversation was over.

Foreman sighed, shook his head, and started for Examination Room two to put his coffee down before calling on his first patient. He wasn't in the room yet when he heard a scream followed by a low roar of gasps and calls for help. He looked over to see a woman lying on the middle of the waiting room floor having a grand-mal seizure. Foreman set his coffee and the files down on the nearest side table and hurried to the woman's side. A nurse from one of the rooms came running soon after, pushing a cart with her.

Once the woman was stabilized and on a gurney being taken to the ER, the atmosphere of mayhem in the crowded room eased a bit. Foreman went back to the table for his coffee and patient files and then headed to the examination room. He took a couple of deep swallows of his drink, glad that it was still reasonably hot. He shook his head; someone at the cafeteria had misplaced an urn of flavored brew in the spot for dark roast. It didn't matter. It was caffeine and he needed it badly.

The neurologist picked up the first file and looked it over briefly as he drank. A new patient, a man in his early sixties, was complaining of stomach cramps and nausea. He took two more swallows and set his coffee down on the counter; he went to the waiting room to call for his patient.

"Larry Pauoli?" Foreman addressed, looking around the waiting room for a reaction among the faces. Nobody responded. It really irritated him when people didn't report to reception when they decided to leave before being seen. He decided to try again. "Mr. Larry Pauoli?" _Going once, twice, three times…._

Foreman sighed and went to the second file. "Mrs. Angela Daye?"

An elderly woman wearing a bright yellow raincoat and carrying a giant black purse looked up upon hearing her name. Foreman smiled pleasantly and gave her the 'come here' sign with his index finger. She slowly rose to her feet and shuffled towards the doctor ever so slowly. The neurologist tried to hide his impatience behind his smile. When she reached him, he offered her assistance into the examination room and shut the door behind them.

"Have a seat, Mrs. Daye," Foreman told her, leading her to one of the two chairs in the small room. She was even slow sitting down. He took a deep breath and then took another one right away. He felt a little lightheaded.

"So," he said to his patient. "How can I help you today?

Mrs. Daye put her hand on her chest over the sternum. "It hurts here," she told him softly. Foreman nodded .

"Can you describe what kind of pain it is you feel?" he asked her, grabbing a stethoscope off of the counter next to him. "Is it a sharp pain or is it dull?"

"Sharp," she answered with the same shaky voice. "Like someone's stabbing me."

Foreman frowned. "How strong is the pain? On a scale from one to ten, one being the weakest you've ever felt, like there's just a tiny bit of pain and ten being the most excruciating pain you've ever felt, what number would the pain you feel be?"

The elderly woman frowned, shaking her head. "Heavens, I don't know…maybe a six, or a seven?"

"That bad, huh?" Foreman acknowledged. "Does it hurt sometimes more than others? Are you doing anything different from normal when you feel it?"

"Oh, no!" she told him. "It just hurts every time I breathe."

"Does your chest ever feel heavy, like there's a heavy weight sitting on it?" Foreman put the stethoscope into his ears.

"No, but sometimes it's hard to breathe," she answered. "I really have to work at it."

Foreman nodded. "Mrs. Daye, I'm going to listen to your chest now to see if I can hear anything unusual that may help me determine what's causing your pain, alright? All you have to do is open your jacket. I can listen through your top."

The woman slowly unzipped her jacket to expose a white blouse underneath. Foreman put the stethoscope to her chest and listened for a few seconds before moving it to another position and listening again.

"Okay," he told her, "Now I'd like you to take a few deep breaths in slowly and exhale each one slowly while I listen." She complied, and he listened carefully. Next he instructed her to remove her jacket so he could listen from her back. He stood up to move behind her and felt dizzy, nearly having to sit back down.

_Strange_, he thought_. Low blood pressure_?

He grabbed the counter instead until the dizziness passed and then moved around to her back and listened.

He removed the stethoscope and hung it around his neck. "It sounds like you may have an infection of some kind in your lungs, Mrs. Daye. Have you had a cough lately?"

"Yes, I guess so, "she answered, nodding. "A dry cough. I had a cold about a week ago, but then I got better. Now this started."

Foreman nodded, returning to his seat. He felt short of breath and a slight headache was beginning to bother him. He wondered if _he_ was coming down with a cold. With the back of his hand he felt Mrs. Daye's forehead and cheeks. They felt warm, but not overly. If she had a fever, it was a low-grade, maybe 100 degrees or so. He didn't bother pulling out the thermometer to check.

"Do you know what's wrong with me, or don't you?" the senior demanded grumpily.

_Yes_, the neurologist thought, _you're old_. "Well, I can't say for certain yet. I need to run a few tests on you…." He still felt out of breath and had to breathe again before continuing, "The tests will confirm for me what I think the problem is. It sounds like acute bronchitis to me." He stood up and felt dizzy again, this time worse than the last. _What the hell_?

"Are you alright?" Mrs. Daye asked him, frowning. "Do _you_ need some help?"

Foreman looked at her in bewilderment and then shook his head no and tried to smile. "I'm fine. I just stood up too quickly. I'm going to order a chest x-ray, just to make certain we're not looking at pneumonia instead. I'm going to grab a Radiology form from the desk outside and I'll be right back."

Mrs. Daye stared at him with suspicious grey eyes but said nothing. Foreman barely made it outside of the exam room before he had to stop and lean against the corridor wall. Something was wrong, very wrong. He was breathing rapidly but the breaths were shallow. The dizziness wasn't dissipating and now his vision wasn't right. He was seeing double. Foreman didn't know what was wrong with him, but he knew it was serious. He held onto the wall as he made his way to the reception station. Stumbling the last couple of steps, he fell against the desk, knocking over a two-foot high pile of neatly stacked and organized file folders everywhere. Jody turned on him angrily and was about to yell at him when she stopped and stared at him instead. Her eyes displayed her alarm.

"Dr. Foreman, are you alright?" she asked quickly.

All Foreman could do was shake his head and hold onto the desk for dear life. Jody hurriedly came around the desk and grabbed onto him in an effort to keep him from falling over. The neurologist could hear her screaming for Dr. Rubin in the next room but that was all. His eyes rolled back into his head and he fell hard to the floor, convulsing.

* * *

Detectives Molonitny and Hunt emerged from the office of the Dean of Medicine and she followed them into the lobby.

"Thank you very much for your cooperation, Doctor," Molonitny said to her. "We appreciate it."

Cuddy nodded and gave him a weak smile. "It's not a problem. I just want whoever is targeting my staff to be caught and kept from continuing with the madness."

Hunt looked to the senior partner. "Dr. Wilson next?"

"Or House," Molonitny agreed. "Whichever one we find first."

"Well it's nearly lunchtime," Cuddy informed them. "You'll probably find both of them in the cafeteria. They usually have lunch together."

"Thanks for the tip," Hunt said and smiled at her.

Cuddy looked up when the hospital P.A. system came on calling a Code Blue for the Clinic. Molonitny noticed the concerned expression on her face and asked, "What's a Code Blue?"

The Dean of Medicine was peering across the lobby in the direction of the clinic. "Somebody in the Clinic has crashed—I mean, has gone into cardiac arrest and is in need of resuscitation."

Two Nurses with a crash cart went running from the nearest nursing station towards the Clinic, meeting up with two orderlies delivering a gurney from the Emergency Room.

"Will you excuse me?" Cuddy said, leaving them to rush towards the Clinic. Out of curiosity the detectives followed closely behind her. At the Clinic they stood outside the clear glass doors when Cuddy went in. The waiting room was already crowded with people and there was very little room for staffers to get near the patient to do their job. From where they stood, Molonitny could see that it was an African-American male lying on the floor receiving treatment. A doctor and a nurse were performing CPR to the man when the crash cart arrived and modern technology took over. The patient was quickly lifted onto the waiting gurney and the resuscitation crew, the orderlies with the gurney and Dr Cuddy all came flooding out of the Clinic and hurried with the patient in the direction of the ER. Molonitny caught Cuddy before she chased after them.

"Dr. Cuddy," the senior detective asked her. "Was that a doctor on the gurney?"

"Yes," she said distractedly. "That was Dr. Foreman. He works with Dr. House."

Cuddy left them unceremoniously. The name House was all the detectives needed to hear. They ran behind her to the ER.


	20. Chapter 20

**Reconciliations: A House M.D. Story**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its concept, current story line and characters past and current are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

A/N: Thanks again to everybody who is kind enough to review this story, it really encourages me and gives me a sense of whether or not I'm still on track! Keep it up! To those who have been wonderful enough to read this story but haven't reviewed yet, please consider doing so, I'd love to hear constructive criticism (or praise;)) from you, too!

Songs that helped inspire this chapter include: "You and Me" by Lifehouse and "The Scientist" by Coldplay.

**Chapter Twenty**

Wilson had the speakerphone on as he dialed Nolan's number on his desk phone. House sat anxiously in a chair opposite his friends, holding his cane across his legs. It had been quite the morning and the diagnostician found himself feeling like he'd been hit by a semi-trailer. Part of him knew that he couldn't avoid Mayfield forever, where he had to do some more heavy duty work. The rest of him wanted to stay where he was, with Wilson and Chloe, working on ending the danger they were all in. He knew that at Mayfield he would feel completely out of the loop and powerless to do anything to protect them, but if he remained in Princeton he could keep himself together by focusing on the puzzle, by trusting in his best friend for input and support, and resting in the sweet reassurance of Chloe's love.

He watched Wilson carefully as they waited for Nolan to answer his phone. He couldn't understand what had gotten into his best friend a few minutes before. The older doctor had never seen the younger quite as angry; he realized that he had miscalculated how much of an impact Wilson's brief chance contact with Chloe had had on the man. Over the years there had always been a friendly competition between the two doctors when it came women; often they had similar taste in the ladies, Amber Volakis being a major exception. Apparently the same magnetism House had encountered with Chloe hadn't been lost on Wilson, either.

Nevertheless, House had no intention of backing off when it came to the Goddess; she possessed his heart and he never wanted it back. He hoped that somehow, eventually, Wilson would understand.

After four rings the phone on the other end of the line was answered. It was a female voice that came on. "Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital, Dr. Darryl Nolan's office, Connie speaking. How may I help you?"

"Hello," Wilson answered smoothly, glancing up at House. "This is Dr. Wilson from Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital regarding a patient of Dr. Nolan's. Would he be available to speak?"

"Dr. Nolan is currently in a meeting," Connie answered pleasantly. Her voice was silky and warm like vanilla honey. "Which patient would this be regarding, Doctor?"

"The patient is Dr. Gregory House," Wilson told her. To House the oncologist mouthed: _She sounds hot! _

House grinned and nodded, wagging an eyebrow. The oncologist returned the grin and shook his head ruefully.

"One moment, please, Dr. Wilson," Connie told him and put him on hold.

"She's sounds incredible!" Wilson said softly, holding his hand over the mouthpiece.

"She's all woman," House told him in agreement. "Connie is the best part of meeting with Nolan. You go _hoping_ he's running late."

"I've taken you before," Wilson said. "_I've_ never seen her."

"She job-shares with _Rodney_," the diagnostician told him wickedly. "Come to think of it, he's mentioned to me that you're just his type. Next time I'm there I'll give him your number."

The oncologist was about to reply with something less than kind when Connie returned. "Dr. Wilson?"

"Right here," he answered, still glaring at his friend who seemed to be enjoying his discomfort.

"Dr. Nolan left a notation here for you," she informed him. "I've paged him and he should return your call within the next five to ten minutes, unless you would rather remain on hold."

"No, that's alright, Connie. I'll be expecting his call. Thank you so much for your help."

"You're very welcome, Doctor," she told him. "Good bye."

Wilson pressed the button to hang up. He frowned at the smirk he was receiving from across his desk.

"What?"

"'Thank you so much for your help'," House mimicked, simulating the oncologist's voice nearly perfectly. "Give me a break!"

"I was just being polite," Wilson defended but couldn't hold back a smile. "Look, I just found out that Chloe's now off limits—give _me_ a break!"

House's smirk lost its sarcasm. "Thank you, Wilson."

The younger doctor nodded. "Who am I to stand in the way of 'true love'? You're a lucky son of a bitch."

"Jealous bastard," House retorted quickly.

"Underhanded sneak," Wilson muttered.

"Idiot," House returned. "So, you have a lunch date, I hear."

"I'm not certain that's a go today," the oncologist told him with a shake of the head. "Besides, I'll bow out."

"Why?" House responded. "I don't care if you two have lunch, just don't put your grimy hands on her."

"Grimy?" Wilson echoed incredulously. "How much you want to bet that my hands are a hundred times cleaner than yours?" There was silence between them. This time it wasn't uncomfortable, which was a relief for the diagnostician. Tension between them only made things so much worse on him. It was Wilson who broke it. "So why am I on your list of suspects?"

"Everybody is a suspect until evidence can eliminate you. A good alibi is a start."

Wilson pondered that. "Chase was an accident…."

"Or a suicide," House added grimly.

The oncologist nodded in agreement. "With Thirteen, I was on my way to the hospital to meet with Chloe and you."

"Can you prove that?" House challenged academically; Wilson, in his mind, was a suspect in name only, but the police didn't know his character like his best friend did. "Do you have anyone who can substantiate your story? You could have arrived earlier than you say, attacked Thirteen and then covered it up by claiming that you found her that way. The staff in the area wouldn't think anything about you hanging out in the area of my office and may have not even attended to you being around."

Wilson shook his head, countering, "Cuddy was there."

"Not when you 'found' Thirteen, remember?" House pointed out. "Cuddy arrived after you, when you were trying to unbury her. She can't vouch for you for anything that happened before she arrived."

Frowning, the oncologist thought for a minute or two. House watched the wheels turn in his friend's head. He knew the oncologist was considering every angle, calculating arrival time vs. travel time and possible witnesses. The man was brilliant, one thing that House appreciated; he processed information differently from the diagnostician which complemented rather than detracted from his own. Wilson frequently pointed out to him things he had missed.

"My phone records will have the time of my call to Cuddy, to tell her to meet us here, and security cameras will have recorded when I arrived at the hospital," Wilson told him with a smile of satisfaction. "The time difference between the two will tell us what my travel time from the apartment to the hospital was. After a couple of trial runs, the police will be able to determine that I didn't have enough time to get here, attack Thirteen and ransack your office before Cuddy arrived. Security cameras should also be able to show that I didn't sneak in any other entrance than the lobby."

House nodded, impressed. A thought suddenly occurred to him. His eyes opened widely.

"Uh-oh," Wilson said. "I know that look. That's an 'epiphany' look. What did you just think of?"

Instead of answering right away, House rose from the chair and limped over to Wilson's balcony doors and unlocked them, walking out onto the balcony. He could look across the barriers and open space that separated this balcony from the one adjoined to the diagnostician's office. He then went to the rail and looked over it and down at the ground below and then up towards the roof, eyeing the distances, the building's structure and architecture, and the distance of the gap between the two balconies. Wilson had followed him and stood beside him, looking down at the ground as well.

"What?" Wilson asked him again.

"Unless he's Spider-man, Thirteen's attacker couldn't have entered the building via the balcony," House told him.1 "There are no useful holds to climb, and it would be quite the climb, regardless. He could have belayed down from the roof, but unless he has sophisticated training, he wouldn't have been able to do it alone. The balcony doors, like most, don't unlock from the exterior, so he would have had to pry the doors open, but there aren't any pry marks on the doors of my balcony doors, see?"

House indicated across the barrier. Wilson could see that the diagnostician was right.

"So the attacker entered the building the old fashioned way," Wilson concurred, shrugging. "So what?"

House gave him an incredulous look but didn't comment on Wilson's temporary dullness. "Notice the distance between our balconies," he went on. "It's a risky leap, even for the athletic type—it's further than it appears to be. He didn't come through your office, across the balcony and into mine. So, yes, he entered the hospital a more conventional way. If the hospital security cameras can record when you arrived last night, they could have recorded when he did."

Wilson nodded but he still looked perplexed. "Makes sense, but I arrived just before visiting hours were over. He would have arrived before me, so people would be coming and going through all of the main doors. How could we tell which person that would have been recorded is him-- If it even was a 'him'."

"It was a 'him'," House assured him, returning to Wilson's office with the oncologist. "Those filing units in my office are too heavy for your average woman to upset the way they were. Thirteen will likely be able to confirm that her attacker was male. She may have gotten a good look at her attacker, in which case it will be easier to pick him out on the video recordings. If the cops are smart they will have already obtained the recordings by now. Follow me."

The older doctor stepped out of Wilson's office into the corridor and began to look up and down it, scoping out the security bubbles that contained the cameras. He pointed them out to Wilson with his cane. "There's one at either end of the corridor, see? Whether he arrived on this floor on the elevator or up the stairwell, those cameras would have recorded it. If he came up on the elevator and wasn't noticed by the nursing station, then he was either someone who wouldn't seem out of place heading down this way or the staff there is even stupider that I imagined which would make them drooling troglodytes. If he came up the stairwell, which to me seems more likely, he wouldn't have been spotted from the nursing station as easily. Anyone on the recordings entering my office or the Differential room other than for Thirteen, you and Cuddy would rise to the top of the suspect list."

"Not bad," Wilson admitted admiringly. "So now we have to have Thirteen look at the security recordings and convince the cops to allow us to come along to observe."

"That might be—." House began but was cut off by the ringing of the phone in Wilson's office. The doctors exchanged looks and hurried back in, shutting the door for privacy. They took their seats again and Wilson answered, turning on the speakerphone.

House's anxiety level rose as he was forced to think about Nolan again.

"Dr. Wilson."

"Doctor," Nolan's voice replied. "What's happening?" He didn't waste time with pleasantries.

"Before I tell you," Wilson replied, "I want you to know that House is sitting here in my office with me and I have the speakerphone on."

"I understand," Nolan acknowledged quickly. "Greg, how are you doing this morning?"

"Peachy," House quipped bitterly and then sighed. "I just lost another member of my team."

There was a pause before Nolan said anything. "I'm very sorry to hear that, Greg. Since you're with Wilson right now I'm assuming you're safe, at least for the time being. Which member of your team was hit and how did it happen?"

House briefly told the psychiatrist what he knew, finding it taxing to talk about the death of Taub like he was giving an oral report in school. He could feel his eyes moisten but refused to allow it to go any further than that. He'd done enough crying for one lifetime—the lifetime of a _girl_, at that.

"How did you even find out?" Wilson asked his friend.

"I went to the market down the block to buy a few things to make you crepes," the diagnostician told him. "I saw it on the news on the TV the cashier had on."  
"You left the apartment, even though our understanding was that you were to remain with James until he delivered you here?" Nolan asked, sounding suddenly stern. "You placed yourself into a great deal of danger."

"I know," House acknowledged, "but I--."

"Your behavior was self-destructive," Nolan interrupted him.

House said nothing more, staring at his hands in his lap. He was afraid that if he argued or said much else his fate would be sealed and his next stop would be Mayfield.

"He came back to the apartment long enough to leave me a cryptic note telling me that he was heading to the hospital alone and he would see me there when I arrived," Wilson tattled, his eyebrows knitted together. "He didn't bother waking me up. I didn't find out he was gone until Dr. Cuddy called to warn me that Taub had been shot and killed and woke me up. _Someone_ had turned my alarm clock off. I just about had a breakdown wondering if he was still alive."

"You're so melodramatic," House told his friend derisively. "If I had intended to kill myself after that I wouldn't have bothered to come back to the apartment to leave you the note."

"Greg," Nolan said quickly, "you're failing to appreciate the impact you actions had on James. If anything had occurred to you, he would have felt personally responsible."

Again the diagnostician failed to respond to his therapist's words. He stared daggers at Wilson for squealing on him, even though he knew that the entire point of calling Nolan was to present everything that had happened and allow the psychiatrist to make the call as to whether or not House stayed to pursue the killer or returned to the confines of the psychiatric hospital.

"The reason I called," Wilson said, "is because Greg isn't certain he wants to return to Mayfield this afternoon. He has expressed that it's his intention to help the police investigate and at the same time make certain that Chloe and I are safe. He believes that if he returns he won't be able to continue to work on the investigation while in hospital. He's agreed to leave the final decision up to you and he's promised to cooperate with whatever your decision may be."

"From what I've heard of this morning's behavior, I'm more convinced than ever that you need to return here for your safety, Greg," Nolan told him calmly but with finality.

"Look," House spoke up, "I acted like an idiot this morning. I admit it, but I can't do anything to stop the attacks if I'm locked up. I'm the common factor in all of this, Nolan. I can't think of doing anything else until I know that the people I…I love…are safe."

"How can you ensure their safety," Nolan argued, "if your safety is in peril? Can you actually tell me, in all honesty, that you're certain that if another event occurs you'll be able to resist the urge to relapse or commit suicide?"

House's first impulse was to lie and tell him yes. However he knew that Nolan would likely call him on it and use his lie as further proof that he was once again too unstable to remain outside of Mayfield. The truth was, he didn't know how he would react if yet another person he knew was targeted and hurt, or even killed. That wasn't entirely true, either. If either Wilson or Chloe were hurt or killed, he would go over the deep end without a doubt. If he admitted to that, however, there was absolutely no way Nolan would allow him to stay in Princeton.

"It doesn't matter," the diagnostician answered, "whether I'm here or in Mayfield; if anything happened to Chloe and Wilson, I wouldn't want to go on without them."

"Except," Nolan told him softly, any sort of reproach in his voice now gone and in its place was genuine concern, "Here, we wouldn't allow you to harm yourself, and you would have professional help immediately at your disposal to deal with your grief. If you're still in Princeton, you would be in grave danger. I'm sorry, Greg, but as your psychiatrist—and your friend—I can't allow you to remain at large anymore. I'm making it mandatory that you be readmitted as soon as possible. I can have the legal authorities make certain that you return but I would much rather spare you the repercussions of that personally and professionally and have you come in voluntarily. If you admit yourself for treatment of Major Depression, you won't lose your license and the chance of you losing your job will be greatly diminished. If I have to use the Baker Act...."

"I can kiss my job and my license goodbye for good," House finished for him quietly. Any further arguing would get him nowhere. The choice of returning or not was taken out of his hands but he still had it in his power the ability to keep things from spiraling out of control.

"Yes," Nolan said. "As for you continuing to work on the investigation here, it may be a possibility depending upon how well you respond in therapy, and only if I'm convinced it won't be a detrimental influence on you."

"Yeah," House acknowledged glumly. It was finished. He felt utterly powerless, and yet he couldn't feel angry at the psychiatrist; the diagnostician knew that he would protect one of his own patients from external agents that would ultimately hinder their recovery so he couldn't expect his therapist to act any differently when it came to him. He sat there, wondering how he was going to tell Chloe, fearing what her reaction would be even though she had told him that she wouldn't abandon him if it was necessary for him to return.

"I'd like to have you here by five o'clock," Nolan told him. "If you're not here by then and I haven't heard from James to the contrary, I'll have to assume that you are not cooperating and I'll have to call the authorities. Please don't make me have to do that, Greg."

"He'll be there," Wilson assured the psychiatrist. "We'll be leaving here immediately after lunch which should give us plenty of time to get there by five."

"Very good, James," Nolan said. To house, he said, "I know that you're worried about your friends and anxious about being out of contact while you're here, Greg, but I want you to remember that you can't keep others safe unless you're safe yourself."

House didn't say anything. He stared at his hands again stoically.

"We'll see you later, Doctor," Wilson told him. Nolan bid his goodbye and hung up just before the oncologist. The younger doctor leaned back in his chair and watched House in silence for several minutes. House was grateful for the time Wilson was giving him to steel himself for the return.

The sound of Wilson's pager going off broke the silence. He looked at it and House noticed the flinch near his friend's mouth on his otherwise unreadable face. Wilson returned the device to his belt but made no move to pick up the phone or rise to his feet.

"Aren't you going to answer that?" the diagnostician asked suspiciously.

"It's not critical," Wilson replied. "Why don't I walk you to Chloe's room so you can visit her for a while before we have to leave? We can pick up lunch at the cafeteria on the way. While you're eating I'll take care of this issue with a patient."

House nodded and rose to his feet. "Sounds okay."

He led the way out of Wilson's office. They walked in silence to the elevator. Once alone in the car, Wilson told him, "Don't take this the wrong way, but I'll be able to sleep a little easier knowing that you're in a safe place to deal with everything that's been going on. Believe it or not, your safety and well-being is the most important thing to me."

House sighed, sick and tired of the touchy-feely nature of their recent conversations. He couldn't leave that comment just hanging there without a reply, however.

"Don't let anything happen to Chloe…or yourself for that matter," the diagnostician told his friend gruffly, avoiding looking at him.

"I won't," the oncologist assured him. "And I promise to keep my grimy hands off of her, too."

House couldn't help but smirk at that. The elevator deposited them into the lobby and they made their way to the cafeteria. After making their purchase to go, they headed to Chloe's room. When they arrived they found the chaplain alone. She was reading her Bible.

Wilson rapped on the glass. She looked up from her reading and upon seeing them, smiled warmly and waved them in.

"I'm not only blessed by the presence of one handsome man but two," she said in greeting.

Wilson set the bag with the food containers down on the small table then sat in the chair on one side of her bed. House approached her and leaned in to kiss her softly before seating himself on the edge of her bed.

"She can't be talking about us," Wilson said, looking at House.

"Speak for yourself," the diagnostician retorted and then looked at her. "Have you had lunch yet?"

Chloe shook her head. "No, they haven't come around yet with the food trays."

"Good," House said, reaching to the table and opening the bag, pulling out containers of food that smelled worlds better than any hospital food Chloe had eaten. "The poison the hospital serves it's patients hasn't sickened you yet. We come bearing food."

"It's from the cafeteria," Wilson told her with a lopsided grin, "but at least it has taste."

"And consistency," the diagnostician added.

"Salt, too," Chloe chimed in. "You two are very sweet, thank you."

As House began to serve the food Wilson asked her, "Any word whether or not you're going to be released today?"

"The neurology resident was here and left just before you arrived," she told them, eyeing the food hungrily. "She ran me through a few neuromotor tests and declared me fit enough to go as soon as my prescription from pharmacy arrives and Wendy and Sara return to get me. She had to run some errands and took Sara with her. When my daughter gets bored she becomes quite a handful."

"Gee, I don't know anyone else like that," Wilson told her, glaring in his friend's direction. "Do _you_, House?"

House ignored the dig and handed Chloe a Styrofoam plate and a fork. On it he had piled a combination of lasagna, roast chicken, baby potatoes, green beans and a slice of pepperoni pizza.

"_Bon Appétit_!" he said to Chloe with a smile. "Had no idea what you'd want, so we went for the smorgasbord approach."

"We brought chocolate chip cookies, carrot cake, apple pie and chocolate pudding for dessert," Wilson told her. "Bottled water, apple juice and soda to drink."

Chloe laughed and shook her head, looking at the food. "I don't think I can possibly eat all of this! There's enough here to feed a couple of truckers."

"I told you we should have got the mashed potatoes as well," House said sarcastically to the oncologist, who nodded in agreement.

"You two are trouble when you get together, aren't you?" Chloe surmised. "I can tell."

"You've got to stop talking to the nurses," House told her. "They lie."

"Absolutely," Wilson confirmed, nodding his head innocently. "Why don't you two start? I have to check in on that page I received. I'll just be a couple of minutes." He got up from the chair and then leaned in to whisper something into Chloe's ear.

"Hey!" House said quickly. "Quit breathing on her!"

"Okay?" Wilson asked her out loud as he straightened.

Chloe nodded and winked. "Okay."

"Watch it, Boy Wonder," House told his friend toothily before Wilson left the room. "What was that about?" he asked Chloe.

"I can't say," Chloe told him with a mischievous smile. "It's a secret."

House harrumphed at that and stuffed half of a slice of pizza in his mouth. He watched as Chloe gave thanks silently and then opened her eyes and proceeded to eat greedily. He couldn't help but find that amusing. She probably hadn't eaten anything since dinner the previous evening. For a woman who was lusciously voluptuous without carrying an ounce of excess fat anywhere on her body, she could really eat!

He handed her a bottle of water to wash everything down and she drank it thirstily.

"My mother always said it's a good idea to come up for air once or twice a meal," House teased.

Chloe blushed slightly. "Mine told me to quit eating like a sea gull and actually chew my food before swallowing it."

The diagnostician simply stared at her any time she wasn't looking as they ate, trying to burn her image into his memory. He didn't know how long it would be before he earned visitor privileges at Mayfield and didn't want to forget for a second just how beautiful she was. At night when it was time to sleep he would recall her image to lull him to sleep.

"Why are you staring at me like that, Greg?" Chloe said after a couple of minutes.

"I can't help it," he answered honestly. "I can't take my eyes off of you."

The chaplain set her plate onto the table and wiped her mouth daintily with a napkin. She sat back and regarded him seriously. House couldn't help but sense that she knew there was something wrong. There was absolutely no way he would ever lie to her…she'd catch him every time if he tried.

"You've decided to go back, haven't you?" Chloe asked him softly.

House sighed and nodded. "I haven't got much choice," he told her. "If I don't Nolan will file committal papers and have me brought in by force."

Chloe nodded. Her eyes were sad but they held no pity or reproach; they regarded him with love and acceptance. God, he loved her for the way she looked at him! He set his empty plate aside and grasped her hands, gently caressing her knuckles with his thumbs.

"You're afraid that once you're in there, I'll change my mind about you aren't you?" she asked him gently.

He didn't answer, and thus spoke volumes.

"I told you before," Chloe said, "That's not going to happen. I would never abandon you, Greg, for doing the courageous by getting the help you need to heal. Don't continue to tell yourself that returning is a failure because it's the complete opposite of that. Failing would be thinking that you don't need help and then falling back on the same destructive habits that had you living in misery before you gave up the drugs and alcohol." She paused for a moment as if debating whether or not to tell him something. "Do you remember me telling you at the restaurant that I understand more of what you've been through than you think?"

House nodded, but remained silent. He didn't want to keep her from telling him what she had meant by that.

"This is a confession that I find very difficult to make," she told him, nearly whispering. "Only a handful of people know this about me, and I trust you to keep my secret."

"I promise," he told her adamantly.

She nodded. The pain he saw come over her brought out every protective instinct he had and all he wanted to do was pull her into his arms and keep her safe. He resisted that urge, allowing her to speak.

"When I was very young," Chloe began, her voice quavering ever so slightly, "maybe four or five, I was…molested by my oldest brother. He was eighteen at the time. It became a regular thing—whenever my parents left him in charge while they were running errands. After the third time, he began to rape me instead. He wasn't satisfied with that for long and soon began to sadistically torture me."

She stopped when sobs threatened to overwhelm her. She managed to keep them at bay, but just barely. Huge tears ran down her cheeks. House felt a primal anger rise inside of him. He wanted to tell her to stop talking, to stop thinking about the horrors she had experienced.

"Chloe," he said but she wouldn't let him finish. She continued on with her story.

"It lasted until I was eight. He threatened to kill me if I ever told a soul about it and I had no doubt that he would follow through. I was so ashamed and afraid that I never told a soul. The only way I could handle my pain in my teenage years was by drinking heavily every opportunity I had. My parents gave me up as a hopeless case. They couldn't understand why I was so…so bad. I was a raging alcoholic by the time I was sixteen. I still didn't tell anyone. I don't know why. I suppose it was because I didn't think anyone would believe me. It was the word of a rebellious, drunken teenager against the word of her brilliant lawyer brother. One day I'd had enough of the pain that alcohol no longer took away and I attempted suicide by hanging myself from a beam in the hay-loft of my father's barn. He found me strangulating. I had already stopped twitching and he was certain that I was dead. One of my older sisters was a nurse and she performed CPR on me until the ambulance arrived.

"I remember waking up in the ICU, lines galore coming out of me, intubated and on a respirator with my hands and feet bound and one of a team of nurses sitting in my room monitoring me every moment around the clock. I never once was visited by my family. My parents were devout Catholics and the Church more than frowned on suicide. To my parents this lost cause was even more of a lost cause than ever before.

"When I was stable enough I was moved to the Psychiatric unit to detox. I suffered with the D.T.s and actually was taken back to the ICU because of the severity of the withdrawal. It was so awful that my mind has blocked out the worst of it. I spent three months after detox in the psych unit in a rehab program. Once that program was completed I was sent home. It only took a week and a half being shunned by my parents before I relapsed and returned to the hospital for another full three months. I told my therapists that if I had to return home I would not be alive the day after my release.

"It was arranged that I would go to stay with my aunt and uncle in Quebec City. They were very good to me and under their roof I managed to remain sober and finish high school. It was living with them when I began to attend their church and I came to know Christ as my Savior. I would never have had the healing I did without His help. That's when I decided that I would commit my life to Him by helping other hurting people. I became a therapist and eventually felt God calling me into vocational ministry. I never did return home, and didn't have contact with my parents until I was already married to Joseph. With Joseph came another period of abuse that I endured only because of God. There has been a great deal of restoration and healing in my family, but to this day I will never allow myself to be in the same room alone with my brother. My parents still do not know about my brother's abuse of me. Someday, perhaps, I'll find the courage to tell them. The only people who know are my aunt and uncle, my therapists and now you.

"How could I fault you and abandon you for getting the help you need to heal? I love you, Greg. As long as you want me, I am not leaving."

House had no words to say. He had gone his entire life haunted with horrors of his own. He'd never met another person who could possibly understand—until now. While their experiences were different, they were too much alike in the impact they had on their lives. He realized that this was why she seemed to know him inside and out the way she did, why she accepted him dinted, scarred and tarnished. If there _was_ a God in heaven (which he still doubted), he was thankful to it for allowing her to find healing before her entire life became nothing but a cancerous wound eating her up inside.

He pulled her into his embrace, holding her as close as he physically could both to comfort and to be comforted. She clung to him, too. He wished he had the power to erase her memory of everything painful that had happened to her, but he couldn't even do that for himself. House breathed in her scent like it was incense offered to the gods. He couldn't imagine not seeing her every day from that day forward and the thought of him being separated from her burned his heart.

"Promise me you'll visit me," he whispered desperately.

"I promise," she told him, "every chance I get."

He released her long enough to kiss her tenderly and then with passion and hunger. God, he wanted her! To feel the skin of her entire body against his, to worship every part of her with his lips, to be enveloped by her, to lose himself in and with her, to feel the beating of her heart against his, to hear her gasps as sweet music in his ears, to share in the rapture in her eyes.

He broke the kiss and whispered against her mouth, "I need you, Chloe."

She nodded. "I need you, too," she told him breathlessly. "_Je vous manquerai tellement, Mon Amour_!"2

"_Je ne veux pas laisser aller de vous, Chloe," _House whispered back as he traced the contours of her face with his lips and laid random little kisses along the way_.__3_

She grinned at his use of French. "It won't be forever, Greg," she told him, leaning back and looking deeply into his eyes. "I promise."

House couldn't help but smile. "How do you know that?"

"Because," she replied, smiling alluringly, "if you're there too long I'll have to concoct a way to break you out."

He chuckled authentically, not trying to hold it back. He felt so free around her that strangely it almost made him want to cry.

Someone harrumphed from the doorway and House recognized it.

"Get lost, Wilson," the diagnostician said, still gazing into Chloe's eyes. "I'm still in the process of seduction."

Chloe blushed and giggled softly.

"Fine," the oncologist said drolly. "I'll just close the blinds and keep guard outside the door."

"Good plan," House told him agreeably and then he sighed, his smile disappearing. He looked over at his best friend. "Time to go?"

Wilson's face looked strained but the diagnostician let it go as his friend's discomfort at having to drive him back to the nuthouse.

"Afraid so," Wilson told him, "if we're going to stop at the apartment and pick up some of your things first and get there before five."

"That's when they release the hounds," House told Chloe drily. She nodded and smiled sadly. When Wilson began to clean up lunch the chaplain told him not to bother, that she would take care of it and then reminded him to take some along for himself.

"You missed lunch," she reminded him.

"Yes," House said, giving his friend an appreciative wink. "The pizza's good today."

The oncologist nodded in acknowledgement, taking a container to go.

House looked at Chloe longingly. His temptation to escape and take her with him was strong enough to cause him to seriously consider it for a few fleeting moments. _Responsibility_, he reminded himself. _I want to become a better man…for both of us_. He caressed her chocolate brown hair and then kissed her, lingering. He wanted to remember the touch of her lips, the taste of her.

"I'll see you on visiting day," he told her and then rose from the bed and grabbed his cane. His arms felt empty already.

"Yes, you will," Chloe stressed with certainty. "I love you."

House rolled his eyes playfully. "Aw, I bet you say that to all the boys." To Wilson he murmured, "Let's go before I take it on the run."

"I'll give you a call later to let you know how everything went," Wilson assured the chaplain.

It took all of House's willpower to leave the room with his friend.

__________________

1 Spiderman™ belongs to Marvel Comics, and was created by Stan Lee and Steve Ditko.

2 Translation: "I will miss you so much, my Love!"

3 Translation: "I don't want to let go of you, Chloe."


	21. Chapter 21

**Reconciliations: A House M.D. Story**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its concept, current story line and characters past and current are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

A/N: Wow, I found this chapter hard to write. I hope it's an easier read! Let me know!

A Song that helped inspire this chapter include: "A View to a Kill" by Duran Duran.

**Chapter Twenty-One**

Detective Hal Molonitny had misplaced his pen and it was driving him crazy trying to find it on the disaster he called his desk. Unlike his younger partner, Molonitny was an expellee of organization school; papers, loose notes, photos from three different investigations, old take-out containers and paper coffee cups littered his tiny cubicle at Princeton P.D.'s Central Division Station. Usually it wasn't this bad—no, it was usually worse. He had spent most of the last two days out in the field investigating the series of disturbing incidences concerning the doctors at Princeton-Plainsboro and his desk was relatively clear for a Friday afternoon. Even so, he couldn't find his pen, his favorite pen, the Diego™1 pen his six year old niece Kimberly had given him for his birthday. It looked ridiculous for a forty-seven year old, hardened police detective to use but it wrote better than any other pen he had ever used. Besides, it had very deep sentimental value to him; Kimberly had died from leukemia a week after she had given it to him.

He got up from behind his desk and began to search around on the floor. Perhaps it had rolled off of his desk. He got down on his knees to look underneath.

"Yo, Hal!" a boisterous voice said from up above him somewhere. Molonitny jumped in surprise and cracked his head on the desk. After a couple of carefully chosen epithets left his mouth, he slowly crawled out and stood up.

It was Deke Graff, the liaison between the detective division and Princeton P.D.'s forensics division. He held in his hand a number of DVDs and wagged it at the detective. "I've got the security footage back from the Multi-media lab. Got time to go over it, now?"

Molonitny rubbed his head gingerly. A bump had already formed and it held promise of becoming a full-blown goose egg. "That's from the Hadley assault or the Foreman poisoning?"

"The Hadley assault," Graff told him. "Whatcha lookin' for, anyway?"

"My pen," Molonitny responded, irritated.

"You mean that Mickey Mouse™2 one?"

"It's not Mickey Mouse," Molonitny corrected, glowering. "It's Diego. Jeez, don't you have kids?"

"Twin girls," Graff told him with a broad grin, "but they're into Elmo™3 right about now. If I see it I'll definitely let you know. Look, you want to look at this or not? I got things to do, people to see, yadda, yadda."

"Don't get your shorts in a knot," Molonitny snapped. He was now hunting for Hunt's notes from the Dr. Remy Hadley interview earlier that day.

Graff shook his head in disgust. "Ya know if you cleaned that up once and a while you'd be able to find your stuff."

"What are you talking about?" Molonitny retorted with a frown. "I _did_ clean my desk."

"Yeah…in two thousand-four… I think," Graff laughed mockingly.

Molonitny chose to ignore him. His eye caught something with the word 'House' on it and unburied it to find the notes he was looking for. He had to admit, his filing system did need some work.

"Got 'em," he told the liaison. "Let's go."

Graff led the way to the multi-media room with Molonitny close behind. It had turned out to be an eventful morning for the detective and his young partner. After questioning Dr. Hadley and Dr. LaSalle about their respective attacks they had a possible clue that could be very important in linking the two attacks: the men's cologne both had testified to smelling when they were attacked. If Hadley could pick out the cologne LaSalle had claimed to have smelled—Drakkar Noir™—from a scent line up as being the scent she smelled on her attacker, the link would be made.

More difficult to link to the previous two was the drive-by shooting of Dr. Chris Taub. However, if it could be shown that the two women's' attacks were linked by cologne it might then be able to link Taub to them by their shared association with Dr. Gregory House, whom was also attacked on the same night as the women. He made a note to himself to call the detectives that had been assigned the shooting death after he went over the hospital security video. He needed to exchange notes to see if there were any other clues that might link them all together.

After interviewing the women that morning, including the hospital administrator Dr Cuddy, Molonitny and Hunt had planned to question Doctors Wilson and House next when a brand new victim made himself known right in front of them. The ER doctors had managed to resuscitate Dr. Eric Foreman and stabilize the man, but he had been in no condition to answer any questions then and probably wouldn't be able to for a few days at least. A tox screen done by the hospital had discovered that the neurologist had ingested more than enough hydrogen cyanide to kill him and most certainly _would have_ died had he not collapsed in, of all places, a hospital where he received emergency treatment just in time.

The Clinic had immediately been shut down and cordoned off the moment the diagnosis of cyanide poisoning had been made. Patients still there were kept from leaving and were questioned, as well as the hospital staffers who had been in the clinic at the time of Foreman's collapse. Any patients who may have been in the clinic before the collapse were called with the request to contact the police if they had information that could possibly be relevant to the poisoning but as of that time no one had called back with any tips. In fact, when Molonitny had left for the office leaving Hunt behind no one in the thirty-eight people present in the Clinic at the time of the attack had seen or heard anything that could have indicated who had poisoned the doctor or how. A nearly empty take-out cup of coffee from the hospital cafeteria had been found in the examination room Foreman had been using and had been sent to the police lab for processing but getting the results back from there was proving to take a lot longer than it had at the hospital.

Molonitny had more than just a gut feeling that the attempt on Foreman's life was tied to the attempts on the previous three hospital staffers—and all four had the common link that was Dr. House. Gut feelings were not admissible in court, however. He needed hard evidence, and unlike on TV, forensic evidence couldn't be processed over the time of a two minute commercial break.

At one point Dr Wilson had made a brief appearance in the ER, apparently after he had been paged by Cuddy about Foreman. He had made it clear to Molonitny and Hunt that he would be available to answer questions later that evening but that Dr. House, apparently under more emotional stress than he was capable of handling presently, was being admitted at some psych hospital hours away and they would have to get permission from his shrink--or a court order-- to question him. What a giant pain in the ass that was!

In the Multi-media room Graff and Molonitny sat behind a large control board master controlled by a sophisticated software program. Graff inserted the DVDs, brought up the files for the night in question and started the playback on a fifty inch LCD screen mounted to the wall.

"Okay, this portion of the security recording is time stamped between nineteen hundred hours and zero seconds to twenty-two hundred hours and zero seconds, from last night," Graff told Molonitny. "We have here the playback of the three lobby cameras, one ER entrance camera, and two from the corridor outside the crime scene. The original quality of the recordings was relatively poor, but the lab managed to clean them up quite a bit. This isn't three-second still-frame; it's continuous feed and each camera has been synchronized. We can playback all six frames at once or focus in on any combination of one to five at a time."

"Cue up the lobby and ER cams first," Molonitny told him. "We can cue up the corridor cams next."

"Right," Graff said, entering data into the computer. On the screen four frames were blown up, each taking one quarter of the screen. "Okay, when I begin playback all three camera recordings will play simultaneously. We can fast forward whenever we want if we don't want to sit here the full three hours these recordings cover."

"Why not?" Molonitny asked humorously. "What else have we got to do?"

"Yeah, right," Graff responded dryly. "Who's got a life? I'm going to start playback at three hundred percent speed. Let me know if you need me to stop it, slow it down or back it up."

The playback began with the three different angle views of PPTH's main lobby and the one view of the ER entrance. The rate of people entering the hospital equaled approximately the rate of those leaving for the first hour, from seven o'clock p.m. to eight o'clock p.m. It was a well balanced mix of men and women with the odd child appearing every so often. Some wore hospital uniforms and scrubs, others were members of the public. Molonitny was on the lookout for the man Dr. Hadley had described during her interview: a fortyish male of average height and build with salt-and-pepper colored hair, possibly wearing all or partial black. It was a fairly vague description and if he spotted any likely candidates in the recordings he would have to call her in to view them to confirm whether or not it was their suspect. He would have her do that when she came in for the cologne "line-up" and to meet with the sketch artist.

It was right around the eight-thirty-two and forty second mark that Molonitny spotted what might be his first candidate.

"Whoa!" the seasoned detective said quickly. "Stop playback!"

Graff reacted immediately and the recordings froze.

"Back it up about ten seconds, can you?" Molonitny told him, his eyes scanning each lobby angle carefully. Graff backed up the playback the amount of time requested and froze it again. In the two frames that captured the main doors into the lobby was the image of a man fitting the description wearing a cap and a tan-colored, single breasted top coat and black dress pants with black socks and black dress loafers. In his right hand he carried a handled shopping bag that seemed to contain something quite bulky and amorphous in shape. His facial features were blurred.

"Is there any way," Molonitny asked, turning to Graff, "we can zoom in on that guy's face?"

"Well," Graff answered, "we can enlarge the image on this screen or try to digitally zoom in, but either way we will lose quality and detail; we'll run into the problem with pixilation, too."

"Let's try enlarging it first," Molonitny directed. "The first frame there, where we get a full shot of his face."

The tech liaison complied. The other three frames on the screen disappeared and the image in the remaining frame was magnified to fill the screen instead. Besides being larger, the details of the face were not greatly enhanced. What Molonitny could see more plainly was the shape of the man's head, face and nose. His head looked a little large for the rest of his body, but not freakishly so. His face was round or heart shaped and his nose was small and piggish.

"Okay, capture and save a still image of that. Now let's try digitally zooming in two hundred percent," the detective instructed.

"You got it," Graff told him. The image shifted and then reappeared at two-hundred percent zoom. Molonitny could see what the liaison had been talking about; the image appeared too pixilated to show any more detail than the original.

"Damn," Molonitny muttered in frustration.

"Let's try the image from the other camera angle," Graff suggested helpfully. "It's only a profile view of his face but we may get luckier with the focus. It appears to be a better quality recording than from the camera on Frame one."

"Do it," Molonitny agreed. A clear profile was better than a blurry straight on.

The liaison worked away at replacing frame one with frame two on the screen. "Okay. Now I'll enlarge this to fit the screen like I did with the last frame."

Molonitny watched the image change and then studied it carefully. It was, indeed, clearer, but not much. He could make out the fact that the man's eyebrows were almost completely silver and very bushy, and the left ear had the earlobe attached rather than dangling. It wasn't much, but it was something. Zooming once again left the image too pixilated to be of any worth. After recording a still image of frame two Molonitny had Graff return the screen to the four camera set-up it originally was.

"Okay," Molonitny told him. "Forward playback at fifty percent speed. I want to see what that guy does when he come in."

The playback on the four frames began again in slow-motion. The man in question walked straight into the lobby and past the information desk where the coverage of Cameras one and two ended but appeared on lobby Camera three that covered the entire lobby from its vantage point above the front entrance doors. The man walked to the back end of the lobby and went to stand by the main elevator. He pressed a button but it was unclear to Molonitny whether it was the Up call button or the Down one. Once again he had the playback stopped and backed up a few seconds to the point just before the man selects one of the call buttons and then paused. In the image the man's index finger is extended just before contact.

"Can you enlarge that image for me?" the detective asked.

Graff complied, repeating the same process as before. The enlarged still filled the screen.

Molonitny rose from his seat and moved around the control board to stand right in front of the screen, as if that would somehow make the image all that much clearer. It seemed to him that the finger was just about to press the Up button. He asked the liaison what he thought and Graff quickly agreed with him.

"Dr. House's office is up, second floor, I think," the detective said more to himself than to Graff.

He watched the remainder of the lobby and ER recordings at accelerated speed but no one else appeared that even came close to fitting the description they had of Hadley's attacker. At eight-fifty-one and thirty-three seconds, the same man appeared emerging from the elevator and headed towards the lobby doors, where he was allowed out by the security guard that was always stationed at the door. Just as the man exited through the doors another male was entering through them. The second male was dark haired and the security guard didn't try to stop him from entering like he did other members of the public arriving too late for visiting hours.

"Stop playback," Molonitny told Graff, returning to his seat next to him. Enlarge frame one for me, would you?"

"Sure thing," Graff told him. The image enlarged.

"That's Dr. Wilson, I'm certain of it," Molonitny said. He sifted through the notes Hunt had taken. "He's the one who found Dr. Hadley after she had been attacked in the office. I think Mr. Salt-and-Pepper, the guy the Doc passed at the doors may in fact be the guy we're looking for. You said you have the recordings for the cameras in the corridor outside of House's office?"

"Loaded and ready to play," Graff told him with a nod.

"Let's see them," the detective told him. "Cue them up to around eight-twenty-five p.m. for me and play it at one-hundred percent."

The tech liaison obeyed and began the playback at normal speed. The two halves of the TV screen showed the same corridor shot from opposing ends. Frame one was the shot taken by the security camera at the end of the corridor closest to the elevator and showed the stairwell entrance. Frame two was shot by the camera closest to the stairwell and showed the elevator. As with the lobby camera recordings, these camera shots were time synchronized. There was very little activity in the corridor itself. At eight-thirty five and twenty seconds Frame two showed the elevator doors open and two people stepped off, a blonde female wearing blue scrubs who turned the opposite direction from House's office and could be seen in the distance stopping at the nurse's station to talk with a staffer there. The male was almost immediately identifiable as Mr. Salt-and-Pepper.

Molonitny smiled with grim satisfaction as the man turned and walked in the direction of House's office. He stopped at the door on both camera angles and tried to open it but it was locked. Looking back and forth to see if the coast was clear he then pulled what turned out to be a key from the pocket of his trench coat and unlocked the door with it before replacing it in the pocket. He stepped inside the dark room and disappeared from view. No light appeared to come on inside House's office.

Nothing more appeared to happen until another figure stepped off of the elevator at eight-forty-one and four seconds. The person was a tall female wearing a white lab coat and she headed immediately down the corridor towards House's office. Dr. Hadley stopped at the door, tried it, and finding it open put away the set of keys she carried in her hand into the pocket of her lab coat. She stepped into the office and a moment later the light went on inside. A few seconds passed with nothing happening and then the cameras picked up the hint of shadows moving around in the office. In the far background in Frame two there seemed to be some sudden activity at the nurse's station. The female in blue scrubs that had exited the elevator at the same time as their suspect appeared to collapse to the floor and the nurse behind the station desk came out and around to help her. The nurse then gestured to someone outside the camera's purview and a couple of seconds later another staffer came into view and joined the nurse at Blue Scrubs' side. This lasted for nearly seven minutes with a number of staffers coming and going around Blue Scrubs. At eight-forty-eight and thirty-eight seconds the office door opened as the light within was extinguished and the suspect emerged. He looked up and down the hall and then put his cap onto his head and walked casually with his shopping bag, looking more rigid and boxy than before, towards the elevator. After a little more than a minute later the elevator doors opened and Mr. Salt-and-Pepper disappeared into it.

Almost immediately after the suspect disappeared on the elevator, in the distance Blue Scrubs was helped to her feet. The nurses around her seemed to be trying to convince her of something and then one appeared with a wheelchair. Blue Scrubs appeared at first to object to the wheelchair but after just a few seconds of convincing climbed into the chair and allowed herself to be wheeled to the elevator by a member of the nursing staff, who pressed one of the call buttons. At eight-fifty-three and fifteen seconds the elevator doors opened once again and out emerged Dr. Wilson. The nurse pushed the wheelchair with Blue Scrubs in it into the awaiting car.

Wilson made his way quickly down the corridor to House's office where he stopped and pulled the door open. He stepped inside and the lights came on again. The doctor's shadow could be seen moving around until the elevator deposited yet another person, a woman Molonitny recognized as Dr. Cuddy at eight-fifty-five and fifty-two seconds. She walked tiredly down the corridor until she could see into House's office at which time she bolted into the room to join Wilson in unburying Dr. Hadley and saving her life.

"Stop playback," Molonitny told Graff, shaking his head in dismay. That was how the attack took place without anyone at the nursing station noticing. Mr. Salt-and-Pepper had an accomplice in Blue Scrubs whom acted as a distraction during the committing of the crime and aided him in his getaway. Inside the shopping bag had been House's missing computer tower. It had been planned and played out perfectly. They weren't looking for one suspect or even four. They were looking for _five_: The two involved in the Hadley attack and the three involved in the House/LaSalle attack. Both took place at almost exactly the same time, making it impossible for the same people to be involved in both, albeit any one of those could have completed the shooting of Taub and more recently, the poisoning of Dr. Eric Foreman.

If there was any doubt before there wasn't one any longer: House was the hub of the wheel connecting the four other attacks and the vandalizing of Dr. Cuddy's car. The only incident that didn't appear to be connected was the death of Dr. Chase, but even there Molonitny wasn't prepared to dismiss the possibility completely.

Five people were involved, but someone had to be the mastermind. Very few crimes completed by a team of conspirators were planned by the entire group without there being a leader to make the final decisions. That leader was probably one of the five, but not necessarily.

It bothered Molonitny that the only thing that happened to Cuddy was her car was vandalized, but she was left unscathed, not even an attempt made on her person whereas the others had been attacked personally. It didn't match the common M.O. It was possible that her situation was simply a coincidence, like Chase's death, but Molonitny's gut told him that it was connected. He had no concrete evidence to back that feeling up…yet. If it was there, he would find it.

"Let me know when the security recordings from the Clinic are ready for viewing," Molonitny told him. "And send me copies of the stills we enhanced—just in case the Captain approves their release to the media."

"The lab is working on them now," Graff told him, nodding. "We'll probably have them ready by five."

"Rush them as quickly as possible," Molonitny told him. "Who knows who is next?"

Molonitny returned to his desk with Hunt's notes and read them over again. Putting them down he picked up the phone and dialed an internal number.

"Homicide Division," was the answer.

"Detective Sergeant Angles, please," Molonitny told the switchboard, wondering when Princeton P.D. was going to invest in a computerized switching system and enter the twenty-first century.

"Please hold," came the response. Over the phone came the canned muzak Molonitny despised. They could at least have some form of contemporary music instead of what was assaulting his ears.

"Angles," a female voice came on the line. Lola Angles was a veteran criminal investigator who had left a position on the NYPD for the quieter streets of Princeton when her scholarly husband was hired as an associate professor of English at Princeton University. She was known to be no nonsense cop on the job and consummate practical joker off the clock.

"It's Molonitny in Criminal Investigations," he greeted her.

"Hi," she acknowledged in a friendly manner. "I was wondering when you were going to give me a ring. Wanting the scoop on the Taub shooting, I presume."

"You're a mind reader," Molonitny smiled to himself. "I'm becoming more and more convinced our cases are connected. I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

"You're talking about my case files, I hope," she responded drolly.

"Of course," the CI detective chuckled. "I'm a married man."

"That's the worst kind," she joked and then sobered. "My partner and I are both here at the present. You want to get together now to swap notes?"

"My partner should be back around four," Molonitny told her after checking his watch. "That work for you guys?"

"Just a sec, I'll check with Thiessen," she told him, referring to her partner. He heard her put her hand over the mouthpiece and the unintelligible mumblings as she spoke to someone else. After a few moments she came back on the line. "You guys bring the donuts and it's a deal."

"You got it," he told her. "Your place or mine?"

"Mine," she answered. "I've seen your desk. We need a clear space to put the donuts."

"There's a clear space," Molonitny objected as he moved a few papers aside to create one, causing an empty coffee cup to fall into the waste basket beside his desk.

"We'll see you at four thirty," Angles told him and hung up.

_Why did people keep dissing his filing system_? He wondered as he hung up and then dialed for the lab. Didn't he have the highest closing rate on the force?

"Forensics," a male voice answered. "Nguyen."

"Hi, it's Molonitny from CI. You guys got anything ready for me? Case files MH091609688 dashes one and two. If you have anything ready on dash three as well I'll kiss you."

"And that's supposed to make us work harder down here?" came the sardonic reply. "Hold on, I'll check for you."

Once again Molonitny found himself on hold with the muzak again. That was the life of a detective, he decided—hurry up and wait. He rubbed the bridge of his nose tiredly. He was hoping he wouldn't have to put in overtime again tonight. His wife was still sore at him for being late last night without giving her a call. He deserved it—how hard was it to open his cell phone and call her so she wouldn't worry?—but he hated the silent treatment all the same.

Nguyen returned. "You're in luck," he informed the detective. "I've got results back on prints for both one and two, and tox results on three. We had to send some of the fiber evidence to NYPD because they have the tech we don't. A rush was put on it so you can expect something back from them three months from next Tuesday."

"That soon?" Molonitny quipped. "They must have nothing to do over there. I'll be by in a few minutes to sign for and pick up my presents. Thanks!"

"Don't forget that we take bribes for faster work," Nguyen told him before their conversation was terminated.

Molonitny sighed, smirking. Everyone was a smart ass today—including himself. It had to be Friday. The next call he made was to Hunt to tell him to pick up some donuts on his way back to the station.

The four Princeton detectives sat around Detective Sergeant Lola Angles' desk, drinking bad coffee and scarfing down donuts. File folders, evidence photos, affidavits, and computer printouts littered the usually meticulously kept surface. Angles was filling Molonitny and Hunt in on the investigation into Taub's murder.

"Five witnesses, four men and one woman, testified to the fact that the doctor was driving on the single lane on-ramp, accelerating before he was to merge onto the freeway when another vehicle, a white paneled van entered the on-ramp at a high rate of speed driving on the narrow shoulder on the left-hand side past the line-up of traffic behind Taub's two-thousand eight Audi. One witness claimed there were two men in the van and two others said there were three all riding on the front bench seat. There wasn't a consensus on the description of the driver or the supposed third man but four of the five gave very similar descriptions of the gunman sitting in the far right, which I'll let Bob elaborate on in a while." Angles nodded towards her partner, Detective Robert Thiessen.

"The van proceeded to pull up next to the Audi so that the gunman was even with Taub. Two shots were reported to have been fired in close succession. We know from the bullet recovered from the upholstery of the Audi that the gun was a nine millimeter semi but none of our witnesses claimed to see the gun clearly enough to identify what it was with any certainty. The first bullet hit the headrest behind Taub's head, maybe three inches from the intended target. The second was a perfect shot, right through the left temple. After the second shot the Audi swerved to the right and crashed into the guard rail three times before spinning to a stop. The two cars following right behind Taub's car collided when trying to avoid hitting the Audi. The van was seen to continue onto the freeway dodging in and out of traffic. Right now we have no idea what happened to it or its passengers but there's an APB out for it—A two-thousand Ford Econoline with New York State plates with the last two digits being three and eight."

"Two shots," Hunt pondered. "Sounds like our shooter has had a fair amount of practice. Maybe he makes hits for a living."

Thiessen nodded his dark-haired head. "We got a pretty good description of him and in fact one of our witnesses is in with the sketch artist as we speak. If we're lucky we may be able to get a look at the composite before quitting time today." He pulled out a notebook from the inner pocket of his sports jacket and flipped it open to the appropriate page. "The consensus was that the gunman was male between twenty-five and forty years of age with medium brown hair cut short and lacking facial hair. He was wearing a Devils ball cap, a stonewashed jean jacket and red v-neck shirt."

"What about the crime scene itself?" Molonitny asked after taking a swallow of coffee. "Anything evidential of any significance?"

"Not much," Angles admitted. "The bullet recovered from the Audi is about it. Oh, correction! There is something more. We just got these back from the photo lab." She grabbed a file folder next to her elbow and pulled out a series of photographs, spreading them out on the desk. They were shots of a discarded soda cup from a local fast food outlet, one of a small chain of eight that were isolated to New Jersey only: Tijuana Tim's Taco and Chicken, or 3TC, taken from a number of different angles and perspectives. One of the eight outlets was located in Princeton.

"One of our five witnesses who came over said she saw the driver throw that cup out of the driver's side window of the van just before the first of the two shots rang out. This person also said that the hand they saw come out of the window to throw it was ungloved. Unfortunately for us, as you can see in those _in situ_ photos, the cup landed in the ditch into about two feet of water caused by the recent rains. It was partially submerged for a couple of hours before it was found and recovered. The lab isn't promising anything with prints but as you can see, the straw was never underwater so the techs on the scene were enthusiastic that they could potentially get a DNA profile from the saliva left on the straw. It will help us solidify a case against the suspect once we actually identify who that suspect is. We could get lucky if the owner of that cup is an ex-con with fingerprints or DNA already on file."

"Lots of coulds and woulds," Hunt said, shaking his head pessimistically. "I'd feel a whole lot better if we had something a little more concrete in our hands right now. Any other leads?"

"We questioned Dr. Taub's wife, Rachel Taub," Thiessen answered, opening another file folder and pulling out a hardcopy of the digitally recorded interview to Molonitny and Hunt. "She told us that her husband didn't have an enemy in the world before he went to work at Princeton-Plainsboro for a Dr. Gregory--."

"House," Molonitny finished for him, nodding. "He seems to be the hub to all of this. Including Taub and House himself there have been six incidences of criminal activity: one murder, two attempted murders, two assaults with deadly weapon and one vandalism. Each victim is House or someone associated with him through the hospital."

"It's interesting you say that," Thiessen told him, nodding. "Rachel Taub told us a few things about House that you may or may not already know. Four and a half years ago House was shot twice, once in the abdomen and once in the throat, by the disgruntled husband of a patient who killed herself after having been told about her husband's unfaithfulness by the good doctor. He's had run-ins with the law including charges for Controlled drug possession and trafficking as well as prescription fraud. He just recently was released from Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital for the treatment of drug-induced schizophrenia. He detoxed from Vicodin and alcohol after having been an addict for the better part of a decade and completed rehab through said hospital. He still sees a therapist from the hospital a minimum of twice a month. His medical license was just reinstated _this week _and yesterday one of his Fellowship candidates--."

"Dr. Chase," Molonitny finished for him again, "died from acute alcohol poisoning. As far as we can tell for now, that death is coincidental and not in any way connected to the other incidences at all. Add to that he has had numerous charges of insubordination and unprofessional conduct filed against him both at the local and state levels." The senior CI detective sighed, shaking his head. "And yet all three victims we interviewed today were tight-lipped and even overtly protective of the man. Come to think of it, they were all women. Hmm. Look, by all accounts the guy is a genius at what he does, and geniuses are infamous for being difficult and just a little crazy. The fact that he is recovering from his addiction is a plus for him as far as I'm concerned. If he was still schizophrenic and of any danger to the public he wouldn't have been released."

"Now look who's defending him," Angles pointed out cynically.

"I'm not defending anyone," Molonitny insisted. "Everything the grieving widow told you indicates that he has a lot of potential enemies who would like nothing more to see House dead—but why the others? His Fellows simply work for him and follow orders. I just have this gut feeling that whoever is doing this has a personal grudge to settle and I'm not even certain that House is targeted to die. I have nothing to back this up, but I think it's a personal vendetta against him to either frighten him or hurt him by hitting the people around him with whom he has the greatest impact and from whom he receives the most structure and support."

"Interesting theory," Hunt said to his partner. "And it would have been nice to be able to talk with House personally without having to jump through hoops along the way."

"What do you mean?" Angles inquired quizzically.

"Apparently the strain of the past two days has been too _hard_ on Dr. House so soon after his release from the psych hospital," Hunt explained, smirking mirthlessly. "He's readmitting himself today for treatment of Clinical Depression and we can't get near him without his shrink's approval. So we either convince this Dr. Nolan to allow us access to House or we have to get a court order. Either way we're going to have to wait now until Monday morning to see it done. What I didn't tell you yet, Hal, is that we have a witness from the Foreman poisoning who was in the Clinic and claims to have seen not only how Foreman was poisoned but by whom."

A grin slowly stretched from ear to ear across Molonitny's face.

"Now _that's _what I'm talking about! Don't just sit there—fill us in!"

1 Diego, or Diego Marquez is a character from the animated series "Go Diego Go" created by Chris Gifford, Valeria Walsh and Eric Weiner for Nickelodeon, © 2005.

2 Mickey Mouse is owned by Walt Disney Productions.

3 Elmo is a character on Sesame Street owned by the Children's Television Workshop.


	22. Chapter 22

**Reconciliations: A House M.D. Story**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its concept, current story line and characters past and current are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

A/N: Do you think you know "who done it" yet? Have I made it too obvious? Tell me what you think!

Songs that helped inspire this chapter include: "Every Breath You Take" by the Police and "Hungry Like a Wolf" by Duran Duran.

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

The ICU room was loud with the hiss of the respirator, the steady beep of the heart monitor, the occasional click of the IV regulator and warning alarms going off every so often to warn the care team that there was a change in blood pressure, heart rate or O₂ saturation. For a place where rest was essential it was ironic how noisy it actually was. Cuddy mused about such things as she sat next to Eric Foreman's bedside. She had been there for a little more than an hour and a half since the neurologist had been transferred there from the Emergency Room. He was comatose, in critical but stable condition. She couldn't get her mind around the fact that yet another member of her staff was fatally ill; he had cheated death by the skin on his teeth. Cyanide poisoning. Who in god's name would do that to another person?

It truly was a miracle that Foreman was still alive. He had drunk ten ounces of coffee laced with enough hydrogen cyanide to kill him twice over. If it hadn't been for the quick thinking and professionalism of the staff on hand at the time, he most certainly would be dead. Now he had a long road of recovery ahead of him. Time would only tell what kind of neurological damage was done by the hypoxia his brain suffered due to the toxin. He was discovered and treated very quickly so the hope was that the actual time his brain went without oxygen was short and minimal if any damage was done, but there was no guarantee of that.

She had been assured by the detectives on hand at the time that their captain had approved twenty-four hour police protection for House's staff and close associates until the risk of harm was gone, but for some reason it didn't make her feel any better. The individual--or individuals--responsible for the assaults, for Taub's murder, was apparently very brave and ingenious to be able to fly under the radar of the heightened security as well as the nearly constant presence of Princeton police at PPTH since Chase died. If having them around still didn't protect Foreman from being targeted, how would having a solitary squad car sitting outside her house at night keep her and her daughter safe? In fact, Rachel's security had been foremost in her thoughts all day. Cuddy had been trying to come up with a workable solution for the problem. She couldn't just up and take off into hiding for however long it took for the police to solve the case and capture the responsible. She had a hospital to run under trying circumstances, staff and patients depending upon her to keep things at PPTH running as smoothly as possible. Besides, she didn't want to be a coward and cut and run when her employees—her friends—were in danger—when House was in danger.

House. She shook her head at the thought of him. No matter how hard she tried she just couldn't stop caring about him. She knew she always would because there was a part of her heart that would always be his. No there was no use denying it. It had been that way for twenty years and it would continue to be that way until the day she died—or he did—whichever came first. However, she knew she had made the right decision on cutting off romantic ties with him. Love just wasn't enough for a lasting relationship, no matter what poets and love songs tried to tell you. There also had to be trust and respect—neither of which they had very much of for each other. So why couldn't she stop mooning over the surly, impulsive diagnostician? Why had it hurt her so much to watch him walk out of the hospital earlier with Wilson? The answer was simple: he was returning to that hospital and at least a part of the reason he was going was because of the hurt she had caused him by bungling things with Lucas the way she had.

_Because you're pathetic_, she thought sardonically, _that's why_.

The Dean of Medicine looked up when she heard the door open. Entering was a nurse pushing a wheelchair holding Dr. Remy Hadley—Thirteen, as House insisted on calling her, dating back to the game of elimination he had used to pick a new team after having his original one walk out on him. Cuddy and Thirteen exchanged weak, sad smiles as the wheelchair was pushed up along the other side of the bed.

"Just use the call button when you want me to take you back to your room," the nurse told her charge and then left the room.

The Dean of Medicine couldn't get over how pale and tired the younger woman looked. Her face was drawn with both weakness and grief. Cuddy didn't know the specifics behind the split between Foreman and Thirteen but by looking at her now, the older woman doubted it was because they fell _out_ of love.

"How is he doing?" Thirteen asked softly, her eyes glued to Foreman's still form.

Cuddy shrugged and sighed. "He's in a deep coma and is listed as critical but stable. He's over the worst…at least as far as the potential of dying is concerned. Now we just wait for him to wake up." If _he wakes up_, she added grimly under her breath.

"How did it happen?" Thirteen questioned, looking at Cuddy now.

The Dean of Medicine answered, "No one is exactly certain yet. What we do know is that he was working in the Clinic when he collapsed, went into convulsions and arrested. He had been at the cafeteria just before arriving at the clinic where he purchased a coffee which was laced with the cyanide. All urns of coffee were taken as evidence and the cafeteria was closed as a precaution but so far no one else has fallen ill from poisoning so the police suspect that sometime between him purchasing the coffee and collapsing the cup was tampered with. The Clinic was closed and sealed off as a crime scene as well. They've been questioning potential witnesses all afternoon but I don't think they have any suspects yet. The detectives promised to keep me posted with as much information as they can as the investigation progresses. The rest of us are going to be provided with twenty-four hour police protection.

"So that's why a cop followed me here," Thirteen nodded in a monotone. "Too bad they didn't think about that before he was hurt," Thirteen said bitterly, nodding at Foreman.

Cuddy nodded in sad agreement. "How are _you_ feeling?" she asked.

The younger woman gave the question a dismissive shrug. "A lot better than him," she said, returning her gaze to her former lover who was now a shadow of himself.

Cuddy didn't say so, but she had a feeling she could relate to what Thirteen was feeling. When House was in a coma following the deep brain stimulation fiasco he underwent to satisfy his best friend's desperate need to know what was killing lover, the Dean of Medicine had spent hours keeping vigil next to the diagnostician. That fear was the worst feeling she had felt in her life to that point.

"I'll let you have some time alone," the older woman told the younger, rising from her chair. As she walked to the entrance she paused long enough to give Thirteen's shoulder a comforting squeeze. Cuddy made her way back to her office. It was just about quitting time and she couldn't wait to get home to see her precious baby and her lover and try to banish all thoughts of the past few days from her mind at least for a little while.

* * *

Chloe LaSalle and her daughter Sarah entered their home and immediately crashed together on the sofa in the living room. It had been a long couple of days for both of them. They sat cuddling there for quite some time as they often did, watching TV or talking about their days. This time neither of them spoke. They were comforted simply by the presence of the other. Chloe knew that Sarah was just glad that her mother was home, safe and sound and was hoping things could get back to normal as soon as possible. The chaplain was glad to be home too, and felt a little better knowing that there was police surveillance on their house, but her heart still weighed very heavily in her chest.

The clock on the fireplace mantle read three fifty-five p.m. The hospital had discharged her at three, but by the time all of the paperwork was signed and Wendy drove them home nearly an hour had gone by. The entire way home Chloe could think of one person. She wondered what House was thinking and feeling as he rode with Wilson back to Mayfield. By this time she figured that they must nearly be there. Her instinct told her that both men were fairly quiet; neither one of them relished the idea of House being reinstitutionalized. She hoped and prayed that the diagnostician would not lose heart and feel like a failure; she'd tried to convince him at lunch that seeking help was not failure, but she knew she hadn't entirely convinced him.

Chloe wished she could have gone with them, but she knew that House would have been terribly embarrassed for her to see him be readmitted. She wondered how he would react to seeing her on Visitor's day; it was her hope that he wouldn't allow pride to get in the way of an enjoyable visit. She didn't know for certain how badly he would need to see her again so soon, but she knew how desperately she was going to need to see him! He had told her that he was falling in love with her, but Chloe knew under no uncertain terms that she was hopelessly in love with him and the way he looked at her convinced the chaplain that House had been honest about how he felt for her. Joseph had never looked at her with the kind of love and longing House had earlier that day. Her heart ached for him.

After a few minutes of just resting quietly, Chloe said softly to her daughter, "You apologized but you never did tell Mrs. Brand and me where you were for all that time you were missing after sneaking away. Where did you go?"

Sara shrugged, pulling her mother's arm tighter around her shoulders. "Do you promise not to get angry?"

Chloe's eyebrows knit together suspiciously. "I'm not promising anything except that I love you."

Again the thirteen-year-old sighed. "I went to find Dr. House."

The chaplain's eyes widened in surprise. "You did? Why?"

"I just wanted to talk with him," Sara answered, "about you."

"Oh," Chloe said. She didn't know what to think about this revelation but was curious to find out more. "Did you find him?"

Sara nodded. "He was in a meeting room next door to where his office was supposed to be. He called it the Differential room, but it looked like an ordinary room to me. He told me that he wouldn't rat me out to you if I became his amanuensis."

The chaplain was really puzzled now. "Sara, do you even know what an amanuensis is?"

"A glorified slave," the girl replied, earning a laugh from her mother. "No, he told me that it was like a scribe."

"Why was he in need of a slave—I mean a scribe?"

"He was writing a big chart on one of those freakish glass walls they have in that place," her daughter answered, referring to PPTH. "It was all about suspects and motives and victims--that sort of thing. Since his writing hand is in a cast he was having trouble writing with his left and needed help."

"I see," Chloe said, nodding. She wasn't one hundred percent certain that she did, in fact, understand what her daughter was talking about but she wanted Sara to continue talking. "So how did that go?"

"Alright," Sara answered noncommittally and then was quiet.

"Did you two talk at all," Chloe pressed, "or did you continue to squabble with each other like you did in my hospital room?"

"We did both," the thirteen year old told her with the hint of a smile on her face. That only made Chloe more curious.

"May I ask what you talked about?"her mother asked.

"I asked him questions about him," Sara admitted. "I wanted to know if he could be trusted or not. So I asked him stuff like whether or not he was a drinker or druggie or if he was abusive to people."

Chloe closed her eyes. Now she understood: Sara had gone to see House to determine whether or not it was safe for Chloe to date him. As always, Sara had taken it upon herself to be her mother's keeper, to protect her from making another mistake by becoming involved with a man who could possibly be another Joseph. So far it sounded as if their conversation had gone amicably enough, but she wondered how House had reacted to questions of such a personal nature.

"What did he tell you?"

"The truth, I think," the thirteen year old replied. "He said that he used to be an addict but now he's clean and that he would never, ever intentionally hurt you—that he only hits men whom he thinks deserve it."

_Well, that was certainly the truth_, Chloe said silently to herself. It was blunt but honest.

"So what do you think about that?" the chaplain asked her, watching her expression carefully.

"I thought it sounded okay," the girl answered with a nod. "He didn't try to make a good impression on me or anything so I guess I believe him."

"What is your general impression of him now that you've spoken with him, hmm?"

This time Sara actually did smile—it was a crooked smile, but a smile nonetheless. "He's definitely crazy and strange, but I guess he's kind of…cool…I guess, in a completely nerdy kind of way. He's kind of a jerk, but not a bad jerk like Joseph. He's like a little nasty, bratty kid kind of jerk. You know what I mean?"

Chloe had to smile as well. "Yes, I think I do. I think you could be right about that. I have to warn you," she advised, "that there are some subjects that he is particularly sensitive about. One of them is his leg."

"Oh, we talked about _that_," Sara said, nodding. "I asked him if he started taking drugs for the pain in his leg—I mean, it's no secret there's something wrong with it. He has to walk with a cane and he's old but he's not _that_ old. He told me yes. He also said that he stopped because it was keeping him from being a good doctor and it was ruining his life."

The chaplain raised her free hand to her mouth in astonishment. She honestly had not expected House to be that upfront with Sara. Why he had been, she wasn't certain, but Chloe felt relieved to hear it. When House and Sara had first met that morning, the chaplain was discouraged by their exchange, but now knowing about their conversation outside of her knowledge gave her hope that they might actually learn to get along alright with each other. If Chloe and House were to have any kind of future together, Sara would have to be a part of it, too.

"So it was a positive conversation then?" Chloe asked hopefully.

"Yeah," Sara admitted, smirking. "I guess it was."

Her mother smiled. "So does he meet with your approval?"

Sara looked at her mother sideways, pretending to have difficulty deciding an answer. "For now," she said. "But I can't give full approval until I see his table manners and if he's willing to do the dishes."

Laughing at that, Chloe said, "Sara, _you're _not even willing to do the dishes!"

"_Exactly_," her daughter said, laughing as well. "That's why _he_ has to be willing—so _I_ never have to do them when he's around!"

After the laughter ended, Chloe looked at the clock again. It was ten-after-four. She wondered if Wilson and House had arrived at Mayfield yet.

"Well, I suppose I should start something for supper," Chloe said with a sigh, rising from the sofa in spite of her desire to remain a couch-potato for the rest of the evening. "But first I'm going to go take a shower. You practice your piano."

"Do I _have_ to?" Sara whined, sounding half her age for a moment.

"_Oui_!" Chloe told her firmly. "Also think about what you would like for supper. I'll be done in a few minutes."

As the chaplain slowly climbed the stairs she heard Sara call up to her, "Don't forget what the nurse said—don't make the shower too hot because it may make you lightheaded."

"And I don't need any more help with that," Chloe joked about herself. "Piano—now!"

Chloe went into her bedroom and closed the door. The curtains were still pulled back from the window, which was partially open. She frowned. She hadn't opened the window the day before because of the rain. Either Wendy or Sarah had to have done it while she was away. But why? She went over and shut it, locking it. Her bedroom window looked out onto the narrow alley that ran behind her house. No one was likely to see her but just to be safe she drew the curtains for privacy.

After grabbing a towel from the closet Chloe locked herself inside her ensuite and didn't plan to reemerge until every part of her body was squeaky clean. As the warm water ran over her head and body she allowed it to wash away her tension as well as the grime. She allowed her thoughts to drift off on random playful tangents until they settled themselves on one in particular.

_She was in some tropical oasis at sunset where the sound of the ocean washing onto the shore mingled with the evening birdsong to create a musical masterpiece. Nude, she stood at the base of a small waterfall in a pool of warm crystalline water that went up just below her waist as the falling waters washed over her, over every curve and line of her skin, like the caress of a thousand hands. As she enjoyed this she suddenly felt another set of hands gently come to rest on her shoulders and she could feel someone step up closely behind her. _

_She turned slowly to look up into House's face as he pulled her up against his own nude form, skin against skin bathed in the warmth of the water. He placed a hand on her hip as the other slowly slid across her skin, up her back to come to rest on her neck to cradle her head as he leaned into her and covered her mouth with his and kissed her more passionately than she had ever been kissed before, his tongue probing deeply into her mouth, tantalizing her with a hint of what was yet to come. She wrapped her arms around his waist and then slid her hands slowly down to rest on his buttocks, gently caressing and kneading his firm gluteals as his hand moved from her hip to do a little exploring of his own, tracing swirl patterns up the curve of her side, causing shivers of pleasure to fill her. His hand came to cup her breast. She could hear him begin breathe harder, faster and harden against her. Her own desire rose as House's lips began to slowly caress her skin down her neck to her collar bone, playing there with his lips and tongue before descending further to the breast he gently held, sending waves of pleasure and desire throughout her body. She felt her need to be closer, _in_ as her arousal built rapidly now, her hands moving all of his body. He looked at her with eyes that asked her, begged her for permission, and she nodded slowly, whispering, "Yes…."_

"No!" Chloe told herself, forcing herself out of her reverie and back to reality. She shut the water off quickly and stood dripping, hand against the tile wall for support, panting, her entire body tingling. She loved that feeling but forced it out of her mind. Where had that come from? She had never had a daydream, a fantasy seem so real and be so erotic before and she wasn't certain what to do with it now that it had happened. The Voice in her head kept telling her how wicked it had been, how she was sinning by lusting after a man who didn't belong to her yet, should never belong to her. The Voice kept berating her over and over how he wasn't hers, _could never be_ hers. How could she imagine that any man would want trash like her. She would always be trash. A person could paint an empty soup can and make it look pretty but it never stopped being a piece of trash….

Chloe nearly tore the shower curtain off of the rod, she opened it so quickly and with such ferocity. She stumbled out of the bathtub, barely made it to the toilet before she began to vomit and cry at the same time sputtering and choking. Falling to her knees, she retched until there was nothing left to bring up but stomach acid. She reached and flushed the toilet, still holding onto it to keep herself from sliding completely to the floor. The tears wouldn't stop coming. Her body literally _shook _uncontrollably. Images of the past flashed through her mind and she felt powerless to stop them. Memories of being raped, memories of being beaten, memories of kneeling in front of the toilet like this more times than she could count after binge drinking herself nearly to unconsciousness--images of teenage boys at an endless string of parties taking advantage of her and she being too drunk to resist or even to cry out no!

Slowly the sobs began to subside enough that she could hear Sara playing the piano downstairs, blissfully oblivious to the distress her mother was going through at that very moment. As the sobs subsided the anxiety rose. _No, no, no_! Chloe screamed in her mind. She rose to her feet, forced herself to the sink to rinse the taste of puke out of her mouth. She washed it off of her face and then turned the water off and looked at herself in the vanity mirror, disgusted at what she beheld.

"I am not evil," she began to chant to herself in a mantra-like way. "I am forgiven! I am not trash, I am a child of God!" She kept repeating it over and over again to drown out the lies The Voice kept spewing out at her. She had to convince herself of the truth instead of giving in to her insecurities, flashbacks, and panic. _Breathe and chant_, she kept telling herself as she did. _Breathe and chant_. "I am _not_ evil, I am _forgiven_! I am _not_ trash, I am a _child of God_!"

Gradually, gradually the panic and the negative Voice began to fade away until she didn't experience it any more. For a few moments she wondered about her own sanity.

"_Merci, Seigneur Jésus, merci_!" Chloe whispered in prayer as her heart rate slowed back to normal. She grabbed her towel and wrapped it around her soaked hair, unlocked the bathroom door and stepped out .

She froze where she stood, completely nude, completely defenseless. Standing between her and the bedroom door was a tall, large man. He wasn't fat—he was large framed, muscular, and carried about him an aura of authority. His hair was short and almost entirely grey, yet he didn't look more than fifty. He had cold, arrogant eyes. He wore a casual crew-neck and khakis. In his hand was a gun, and it was pointed directly at Chloe. Fear caused her heart to beat rapidly again and her breathing rate increased as well. She was more terrified of being raped than she was of being killed.

The piano was still playing downstairs.

"Well," Mr. Tall said, his eyes roaming up and down her body almost clinically. "I can certainly see what the good doctor sees in you. Very nice indeed." He had a tenor voice that sounded almost hoarse, but not artificially so.

Chloe felt her skin crawl and her anger rise. She desperately wanted to cover herself from his filthy eyes but didn't want to risk startling him and getting a bullet through the heart. She forced herself to breathe slowly, deeply, deliberately. Hyperventilating and passing out was not an option. With a disgusted sneer on her face she met his gaze and held it.

"I don't know what it is you want," she told him softly, coldly. "But take it and go. Leave my daughter out of this!"

Mr. Tall smirked. "Don't worry, Mama Bear—I don't want your cub, I just want _you_. Get dressed—fast! Don't try anything or I _will _shoot you. If you do exactly as I say, your daughter won't even know I was here—and neither will the officers sitting out in front of your house."

Chloe quickly did as she was told and began to dress, her eyes glued to the gun the entire time.

"Hurry up, Chloe," Mr. Tall said menacingly. "Don't bother dressing up—I'm not taking you to a party."

"Who are you?" the chaplain asked, not expecting a truthful answer. "Why are you doing this?"

"I love your accent," he told her smoothly. "It's really sexy in a way. I'm certain it drives Greg wild, doesn't it?"

"You used his first name," Chloe observed as she pulled on a pair of sneakers. She wore a sweatshirt, jeans and socks. "How do you know him?"

"We're good friends, Greg and I," he told her with a thin smile, but his eyes were ice cold. "I know a great deal about him--but you'll find out all about that, Chloe."

She looked at the gun. "That's a Glock nine millimeter, isn't it? My ex-husband owns one."

"Shut up!" Mr. Tall told her, his smile disappearing. "Now, we're going to go out the back door-- to do that we are going to go slowly and silently down those stairs without alerting Sara to our presence. If she hears us, she'll stop playing, turn around, see me, and then I'll be forced to kill her. I can't leave any witnesses. You don't want to have that happen, now do you?"

Chloe began to tremble. Whoever he was he had done his homework to know what her daughter's name was. She was able to control her fear for her own well-being, but she couldn't bear the thought of anything happening to her baby. She'd do _anything_ to keep her safe.

"No," Chloe said, shaking her head. "I'll do whatever you say."

"Good," he told her, cocking his head. "Then we'll get along just fine." He gestured with the gun towards the door. "Let's go."

Nearly tip toeing, Chloe moved to the door and opened it slowly. She felt Mr. Tall come up behind her and wrap an arm tightly around her so she couldn't bolt away. He put the muzzle of the gun against her skull. Without a sound they descended the carpeted stairs as Sara played; the thirteen-year-old's back was to them. They made it to the main floor without attracting her attention.

_Please God_, Chloe prayed silently, _don't let her stop playing! Don't let her turn around_!

The chaplain wasn't certain how they did it, but they made it down the tile-floored corridor to the back door and out without alerting Sara in the slightest. She could still hear the piano as her abductor pushed her roughly across the back-yard. There didn't seem to be anyone else around the neighborhood that Chloe could see. They went through the small white gate in the fence that separated her property from the alley. Sitting a few yards away was the panel van. The back doors were already open, waiting to devour her. Tears filled Chloe's eyes. She tried to blink them back but they only ended up falling down her cheeks.

He pushed her into the van, his gun still trained on her. He followed her in and shut the back doors as quietly as possible. Chloe saw him reach for a roll of duct tape from the floor of the van, which had no seats other than the front bench seat. She knew what was coming next.

"I wish I didn't have to do this," Mr. Tall told her, "but I'm too committed now to let it all far apart before the grand finale because I let you ride free only to attack me or jump out. So I have to tape up your hands, feet, mouth and eyes now. We can do this the easy way, where you cooperate, or I can kill you. Which is it going to be?"

He took her silence as acquiescence. Chloe closed her eyes and prayed as her abductor approached her with the gun and tape.


	23. Chapter 23

**Reconciliations: A House M.D. Story**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its concept, current story line and characters past and current are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

A/N: I've been having some glitches occurring when trying to update with new chapters. So sorry if it's taken a while to post this! Please review!

Songs that helped inspire this chapter include: "A Rush of Blood to the Head" by Coldplay and "Notion" by Kings of Leon.

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

It was very quiet in Wilson's Volvo as they drove I-295 south. Traffic was light and nothing eventful had occurred along the way. Thus, House was bored. He hated not having anything to do because when something else wasn't occupying his attention he was left alone with his thoughts—and for House, being alone with his thoughts was not just tedious—it was nearly maddening. His mind never, ever stopped thinking. Every single second of every single hour of every single day—his mind worked, processed, analyzed, mused, coordinated. There was never a moment where his mind wasn't actively doing something—except when he was stoned or comatose—andhis brain was at peace. Even when he slept, his subconscious mind was at work, something he was viscerally aware of when he awoke. It was like being locked in a room, unable to plug one's ears or escape and have a voice reading out the dictionary without ceasing…ever and there were times when he felt as if he would go mad…or was mad already.

He had never tried to explain it to anyone else because he doubted that anyone would be capable of empathizing with it unless they suffered from the same affliction, so there was no point in discussing it with Nolan or anyone else for that matter. He had read in many studies and pop-culture articles alike different theories for it, and he knew that he was not the only person in the world who had ever experienced this phenomenon, but nothing satisfied his desire for it to end—just once, just for one moment—and to know the bliss of mental emptiness. Opiates had not only offered him respite from emotional and physical pain, but from his own thoughts; they had provided him the greatest amount of relief than anything else he had ever taken—even the anti-psychotics he had been given when he was in Mayfield the first time around hadn't come close to it. He missed being drunk and stoned. Vicodin was water, and he was a man dying of thirst.

"Wilson," House said suddenly to the driver, "talk to me. I'm bored."

"You're always bored," Wilson told him. "What do you want to talk about?"

"The case."

"What case?"

House rolled his eyes impatiently. "The murder case."

"Taub?" Wilson asked, glancing over at the diagnostician.

"Yes, Taub," House replied, sighing. "Everybody who's been targeted. Murder and attempted murder case."

"Don't forget the vandalism of Cuddy's car," the Oncologist added.

"Yes," the diagnostician said, growing irritated, "and the vandalism. Let's go through what we know in order of occurrence."

"Okay," Wilson agreed amiably. "Do we include Chase in our study, or was he simply a coincidence in your thinking."

House considered that a moment. "We don't eliminate him until we can prove that he doesn't apply. Chase…depressed, obviously. Skips work to get drunk. We now know that he was probably high on the Percocet as well. He took the Oxycontin, hid it in his car. He was depressed for two reasons."

"Two?"

"Oh yeah, I never told you the entire story with Dibala," House mused.

"The entire story?" Wilson echoed uneasily. "Do I really want to know the whole story?"

"Probably not," the older doctor answered, shrugging, "but it may help if you do. You have to promise not to tell anyone what I'm about to tell you."

"Oh god," the younger man murmured, shaking his head slowly. "You're going to tell me whether I want to know or not, aren't you?"

"Yup."

"Of course you are." Wilson took a deep breath and let it out. "Okay…let's get it over with."

House shook his head. "You have to promise to keep this secret, first."

Wilson shoulder-checked before changing lanes to pass a slow-moving vehicle in front of them. "Okay, I promise."

"Pinky swear?" House pressed, extending his pinky out to his friend. Wilson glanced over at him incredulously.

"Are you serious? What are you—a six year old _girl_?"

"Are you mocking my gender issues?" the older man said, pouting. "Do you know how many sessions with Nolan it's going to take me to get over the hurt from your mockery?"

"Bite me," Wilson told him impassively. "Tell me what you feel I need to know about Dibala that you haven't already told me."

House glanced out his side window in time to see a pretty, chesty blonde driving the car they passed. She saw him and smiled. He smiled back, wiggling his fingers in a flirtatious wave.

"House?" Wilson asked, glancing over at him. "What are you doing?"

"Being friendly," the diagnostician replied, returning his eyes back to his best friend. "It's part of my therapy."

"Uh huh."

"Oh yeah, Dibala." House returned to the topic at hand. "You know how I told you that it was Chase's screw up that led to his death."

"Yeah?"

"It wasn't a screw up. It was on purpose."

Wilson's head whipped around to look at him in surprise. "It what?"

"Do you have a hearing problem?"

"B-but," Wilson stammered. "That's murder!"

House sighed. "He figured it was justifiable homicide. He knew that Dibala was a mass-murderer and decided he had an obligation to preserve the thousands of lives he was going to destroy by ending his one life."

"And that justifies it?" the oncologist reacted, and shook his head adamantly. "No. He does not have the right to arbitrarily decide who deserves to live and who dies. He had no more right to kill Dibala than Dibala had to commit genocide. Chase lowered himself to the dictator's level. My god, House! How could you let him do that?"

"Me?" House exclaimed, recoiling. "I didn't do it! It wasn't my idea and I didn't even know he had done it until after Dibala was dead. I didn't even have my license reinstated at that time. Foreman was still in charge. I figured it out by Chase and Foreman's panic over trying to come up with a cover story for the D&D Cuddy initiated."

"Oh," Wilson said, lowering his voice. "But after you found out you failed to report it—that makes you an accessory-after-the-fact. And now you've made me one! Damnit!"

"Don't get your shorts in a knot," House replied. "No one is going to find out. The investigation into it has been closed. It's over."

"So we all get away with it," Wilson said, shaking his head in disbelief. "That makes it okay then."

House sighed. He knew that Wilson's moral compass would be sent spinning by knowing but he accepted that happening in order to work on the case. "How is what he did any different from killing someone who is going to kill you, your wife and your ten kids?"

"Ten?"

"You're Mormon. Or Catholic. Take your pick."

"There's a big difference," Wilson told his friend with certainty. "In that case it's self-defense. You have the right to protect yourself and others from the _immediate_ danger of being killed. In the case of Chase killing Dibala, there was no immediate danger. There were other means that could have been employed to stop Dibala from continuing his campaign of slaughter."

"Yeah, right," House snorted derisively. "And all efforts thus far going through the 'proper channels' have been _so_ successful."

"It doesn't make a difference whether they have been or haven't," Wilson argued. "There was no immediacy of danger. Self-defense or defending the life of another doesn't apply here. No one person has the right to decide when another should die. In my opinion he should have been reported, lost his license to practice medicine in this country permanently and should be facing trial right now for murder."

The car was silent again for several minutes. Wilson kept his eyes straight ahead; he was white-knuckling the steering wheel and it wasn't out of fear. House didn't fault his friend's reaction. He simply wasn't as certain as Wilson that the matter was black and white. Just because the threat to Dibala's people wasn't immediate, it was almost all but certain. Why was time a more important factor than certainty? Besides, House hated to have to concede anything.

"You're a hypocrite."

"I'm a what?" Wilson asked.

"You heard me, Mister Assisted-Suicide."

Wilson's face began to turn pink. "You're not honestly comparing the two, are you? What I did for my patient was provide for him the opportunity to decide for himself whether or not he would continue to suffer until he died from his cancer or take his own life to end the pain and die with dignity. I didn't decide for him and I didn't give him the lethal dose of morphine. Dibala wasn't given the choice to be killed or not to be killed. Chase made that choice and executed the kill himself."

"You're assuming that your patient was thinking rationally enough in the midst of his agony to be able to make that kind of choice," House insisted, shaking his head. "When all you can think, see, hear, smell, taste and feel is agony, you simply can't choose. You automatically react, your primitive brain telling you to do what is instinctual—avoid pain and seek pleasure. Ordinarily avoiding pain would be the same as avoiding death but not in the case of your patient. You gave your patient the means to act instinctually and thereby die, not provide him a rational choice. There's no practical difference."

"My patient wasn't at the point where he was simply a mass of neurons firing at random, House," Wilson objected. "He could carry on short conversations. He was with it enough to be able to choose and it was up to—oh, never mind." He took a deep breath to calm himself. "I'm assuming that that was a big reason why Cameron left him. My question is, why did she wait so long?"

"She didn't know right away," House told him, rubbing his thigh; the pain in his leg was getting worse; it always did when he travelled for any length of time by car. "When she did find out she decided to stand behind him on the condition they leave PPTH and Princeton and leave the corruption that is me behind. When Chase told her that I had nothing to do with his decision to kill Dibala and he was going to take the job on my team, she left. That's reason number two for his depression."

"You think she should have stayed?" Wilson asked.

House shook his head. "Doesn't matter what I think. I didn't think she should have married the Wombat in the first place but I guess she didn't think the advice of an opiate-addicted alcoholic was all that reliable."

"You actually came out and told her not to marry Chase?"

"It was inferred," House answered vaguely. "So, even if Chase's death was an accident, Cameron could still be a suspect. If she truly believes I am Corruption incarnate then she could be targeting not only me but the rest of you associated with me in revenge or some twisted sense of justice."

"It's not Cameron," Wilson told him flatly. "She would never do that and you know it."

"You're basing that on emotion, Wilson," the diagnostician told him. "Unless you have proof otherwise, she stays on the list. Who else?"

"Maybe someone in Dibala's entourage found out and is exacting revenge?" the oncologist suggested.

"If it was someone from Dibala's camp we'd all be dead by now," House said dryly. "Those guys don't fool around. However, we have no proof to the contrary so it stays on the list. What about Thirteen?"

"Are we assuming that every incident is connected?" Wilson asked. "If so, then we have to keep in mind that the evidence has to support that the suspect had motive and opportunity for every incident."

"Agreed," the older doctor said. "But keep in mind that there is more than one person involved. There may be one leader with the motive but we know that there are at least four people involved."

"Right," the younger doctor concurred. "Thirteen was attacked at the same time you and Chloe were; there was at least one person for her and three guys for your attack. That complicates things a little."

"You think?" House began to more vigorously rub his leg. It was really hurting.

Wilson glanced over and noticed. "Would you like to take a break soon? Maybe walk around, stretch your legs?"

"We got enough time?" House said through gritted teeth.

"We'll make time," his friend told him. "I'll pull over at the next rest stop. How bad is it?"

"About a seven," House replied, "It hasn't hurt this badly for a while but then again it did take a bit of a beating last night."

"You have any Ibuprofen with you?" the oncologist asked in concern.

"In my bag in the trunk," the diagnostician confirmed with a nod. "I'll take it when we stop. Let's keep working. Thirteen was attacked why?"

"Well, if our assumption is true, then it makes the most sense to suspect that the motive was that she works for you. If we're wrong about the connection, then there could be any number of possibilities."

"Let's stick to the connection theory," House decided. "Opportunity. Her assailant was most likely a male because of the strength that would have been necessary to toss my office the way it was. I can be eliminated from attacking her because I have an air tight alibi. You are off the hook so long as the security camera recording can substantiate the position that you didn't arrive in time to be able to attack her. Where was Foreman at the time, I wonder?"

"Why Foreman?"

"Motive," House answered. "Consider the following: one, Foreman and I have never got along. There's always been antagonism between us. Two, Foreman was given control of my department when I was in Mayfield—did a horrible job, may I add with glee—and had to surrender the department back to me once my license was reinstated. He is a proud man. Being demoted may have been enough to drive him to revenge. Also, he may believe that if I'm gone he would be Cuddy's natural choice to replace me again."

"It's not Foreman," Wilson told him quietly.

"And what are you basing that on?" House asked, frowning.

The oncologist sighed and House didn't like the expression on the man's face.

"I didn't tell you before we left because I didn't want to upset you or sidetrack you from going to Mayfield, but…Foreman was attacked this morning."

The diagnostician closed his eyes. He was both furious and guilt-stricken. His anger was directed at Wilson for keeping him in the dark and his guilt was directed at himself for yet another person had suffered because of him.

"You took it upon yourself not to tell me?" House shouted. "Damnit, Wilson! What happened—and I want to know everything you do!"

Wilson rubbed the bridge of his nose. "He was in the Clinic. He had just bought a coffee at the cafeteria before reporting there. He drank about two thirds of it before calling his first patient. He didn't make it through the examination. He collapsed and began seizing, then arrested. He was resuscitated and rushed to the ER. The presumptive diagnosis was cyanide poisoning. When the tox screen came back from the lab it was positive for hydrogen cyanide. At some point between the cafeteria and Foreman drinking his coffee someone poisoned his cup. Apparently there was an incident when he first entered the clinic that distracted him from his cup for a few minutes—a woman in the waiting room collapsed and had a seizure. He went to her aid…it's possible that's when someone slipped the cyanide into his drink when people weren't paying attention, or at least that's one detective's theory. They managed to stabilize him but there's no way to know how much brain damage was caused by the hypoxia until he comes out of his coma."

"That was the page you said was nothing important," House concluded, shaking his head. "I can't believe I fell for that. When I was having lunch with Chloe you were down in the ER. Damn!"

"I knew you would be hit hard by the news," Wilson explained to him, "and I was worried. I thought it would be best not to tell you until you were in the safe environment of the hospital…just in case. There was nothing you could do but obsess over it anyway."

House said nothing to that. He couldn't believe how pathetic he was. His best friend was afraid to give him bad news because he believed the diagnostician to be too fragile emotionally to handle it. The fucking thing about it was that Wilson was probably right to think that. The oncologist was also right when he said that House was powerless to do anything about it, powerless to protect himself much less anyone else. He had never felt so helpless before this.

"There's a gas station up ahead one mile," Wilson told him, breaking the silence. "We'll get out and walk around there."

"Right," House agreed, feeling completely deflated.

"Okay," Wilson said, obviously trying to get his friend to think about something else. "You. Who would want to kill such a sweet, kind, lovable humanitarian and philanthropist like you. Hmm, gee…."

The diagnostician glared at the oncologist.

"Keep it up and I'll put myself on the suspect list for bumping you off," House said, scowling. "Unfortunately, I have to admit I've made my share of enemies. Perhaps the better question is: Who wouldn't?"

"I think you're being a little hard on yourself," his friend told him. "I was just kidding a moment ago. Maybe before you were sober you were less than everybody's favorite person, but that was because of what the addiction made you do. I know I haven't told you this like I should, but I've seen quite a bit of change, Greg. I know I'm not the only one."

"Eh," House said, shrugging the compliment off. He was more than uncomfortable receiving them. "It's all an act. I can't have made that much change if I'm on my way back to Mayfield."

"The Gregory House I knew even a year ago wouldn't have been in this car, voluntarily checking himself in to get help," Wilson insisted. "Admit it—the only reason you agreed to Mayfield in the first place was because you were psychotic from the drugs and were unable to practice medicine that way. If that hadn't happened you would probably be back at the hospital popping a Vicodin or two right about now and hiding out in your office with your earphones on. The fact that you didn't drug me and take off with my car when we stopped at the apartment to pick up your personal belongings is proof that you're getting better. Now if you could just resist the urge to punch me in the jaw…."

"I said I was sorry for that," House reminded him. He knew that Wilson meant well, but the more he tried to encourage the diagnostician, the more House came up with examples from the past few weeks to discredit what he said.

"I know," Wilson nodded. "Sorry for bringing it up again."

Wilson turned the car into the gas station slash convenience store's lot and parked the car.

"Now," Wilson told the older doctor before they got out of the car, "I trust you not to pull something in an attempt to avoid returning to the hospital this afternoon."

"From praise to suspicion," House griped. "That's the story of my life. Good to know that you have so much faith in me."

"Oh brother," Wilson sighed in frustration, getting out of the car first. He went around to the other side, willing to give the diagnostician a hand out but House had managed without him and was already limping to the trunk to grab the Ibuprofen out of his suitcase.

"Toss me the keys," he called out to the younger doctor.

"Ah, no," was the reply as Wilson opened the trunk for him.

"What?" House said resentfully. "You really don't trust me, do you?"

"I just finished telling you how impressed I am in your--." Wilson began to protest, but House had no interest in hearing what he had to say. The older doctor found the Ibuprofen, poured two tablets into his hand and then put the bag away again. He limped painfully with his cane towards the convenience store; along the way he dry-swallowed the tablets.

He felt anxious, irritable. All he wanted to do was turn around and go home. The closer to the Philly metropolitan area they got, the worse he felt. Just the thought of having to return to that place was bad enough—he could stomach the humiliation of failure if he had to—but knowing that he was leaving Wilson and Chloe behind and in very real danger nearly made him sick to his stomach. He wanted to run back to the chaplain and hold her, smell her hair, kiss her silky skin and remind himself that there was still something good in the world. House knew that Wilson had good reason to doubt him; if he had a reasonable means of avoiding the hospital and still keep his ability to practice medicine, he'd be on his way back to Chloe and freedom already.

The bathroom was his first stop. After he was done in there he headed to the coffee counter, about to pour himself a cup and then thought better of it. He was already feeling like he was going to jump out of his skin, caffeine would only make it worse. He opted for a bottle of grape soda from the cooler and a bag of pretzels. He went to stand in line to pay. Wilson joined him with a cup of joe. House didn't say anything to him, still irritated.

Wilson's cell phone rang. He answered it quickly.

"Dr. Wilson…yes? Oh, hi…he's right here…Sara, how did you get my number...uh huh…is there something wrong?"

House alerted the moment he heard the name Sara. His stomach flipped. "Give it to me," he said to the other doctor.

Wilson frowned. "Yes, he's right here," he said into the phone and looking up at his friend. As he handed the phone over he mouthed, 'She's been crying.'

"Sara," House said into the phone quickly, trying to keep his voice sounding calmer than he felt. He handed his items over to Wilson, mouthing, 'Pay for this, I'll meet you at the car.'

The diagnostician tucked the phone between his ear and his shoulder and headed towards the exit, ignoring the dirty look Wilson gave him. "What's going on?"

He could hear sobs and the teen's effort to control them. "My mom, she's gone!"

House felt his heart rate begin to rise and his stomach flipped again. "What do you mean she's gone?"

"She's gone! She's disappeared and the back door is open and she's nowhere around and she was taking a shower and I was practicing piano--."

"Sara, slow down!" House told her. "I can't understand a word you're saying. Take a breath and calm down." He could hear her trying to take a few shuddering breaths. "Okay, now what do you mean that your mom is missing? She's not in your house?"

"No," the thirteen-year-old answered, and House could hear the effort she was putting into trying to speak slower. In spite of that she sounded like she was beginning to hyperventilate. "We came…home from the…hospital and…Mom went to…take a shower while…I practiced my piano. She was upstairs…and I could hear the shower…about a half…an hour later she…still didn't come down…so I went upstairs…and I found her room…empty. She wasn't there…she left her wet towel on her…bed which she…never does and…her bathroom floor…was covered in water…she left her drawers out…Mom's a neat freak. I checked…the house and…she's…nowhere and the back door…was open. I'm so scared!"

House was scared too. In fact, he was downright terrified—but he knew he couldn't let her know it. His mind was spinning, trying to fathom what was happening on the other end of the phone.

"Sara, could she simply have run out to the store for something?" he asked her hopefully.

"No!" the teen nearly shouted. "She would never leave the upstairs…like it is…Dr. House. She always…tells me if…she's going anywhere…Always. Something is…really wrong!"

The diagnostician knew that she was right. He reached the car and climbed in. "How long ago was this, Sara? When did you notice her missing?"

"Just a couple of…minutes ago," she responded, struggling to breathe. "I went to get the cops…outside but they…were gone!"

Now House was really confused. "What cops, Sara? What are you talking about?"

The diagnostician could see Wilson emerge from the store with a grocery bag and his coffee and head towards the car. He got his attention and gestured for him to hurry.

"There were…some police who…were supposed to…be guarding our…house all night," she told him. "I went out to…get them but…they were gone. Dr. House, what do…I do? I'm so scared!"

Wilson half-jogged to the door and climbed in. "What's going on?" he demanded.

House shook his head at him. "This is what I want you to do," he said into the phone. "You need to hang up, then call nine-one-one and tell the dispatcher what you just told me. She'll send help. When you are finished, lock all the doors and windows and then call me right back. Have you got that?"

"I-I think so," Sara replied. "Call nine-one-one and lock...everything and call you…back. Okay, bye!"

He heard her hang up and did so himself. "Chloe's missing!" the diagnostician told his friend, in danger of hyperventilating, himself. "She was at home taking a shower and then disappeared. She says it looks suspicious. We need to turn around now and go back!"

"Are you sure it isn't a mistake?" Wilson asked dubiously. "Maybe she ran out for--."

"She didn't!" House insisted, his body tensing up. "Sara said Chloe always tells her if she's leaving the house."

"Maybe she forgot?" Wilson offered, shrugging. "House, I've got to take you to Mayfield. We can't go back. Let the police take care--."

"Are you insane?" House screamed, losing it. "I'm not going to Mayfield now! Chloe could be in danger—she could be--!" He couldn't finish was he was going to say. It was too horrible to even think. He couldn't believe the stupidity Wilson was exhibiting. It was obvious that something was very wrong. Chloe may have been abducted by the same people trying to kill off the people around him. How could he just continue on his way and leave it in the hands of imbeciles to make certain she was alright? If something happened to Chloe and he wasn't doing everything he could possibly do to find her and protect her he would never be able to live with himself—he simply wouldn't continue to live!

Wilson appeared to be struggling to control himself. "Let's call Nolan and see--!"

"Fuck Nolan!" the diagnostician cut him off. "You call him—I'm heading back to help Chloe!"

"How?" Wilson demanded. "How are you going to be able to find her any faster or better than the police? House, you need to calm down and think rationally! We don't even know _who_ has her!"

House stared at the oncologist for a moment, panting, a thousand thoughts running through his head and not one of them being what he needed to answer him. In a sudden burst of fury he pounded his fist against the dashboard with all of his strength. He found hot tears form in his eyes but they were tears of anger, not sadness. What kind of man was he when he was powerless to protect the people he loved? What good was he this way? How could he keep from going insane with worry sitting around the asylum, waiting for word that Chloe had been found dead, her body dumped and found floating face down in the Delaware & Raritan Canal. He felt Wilson try to put a comforting hand on his shoulder but House shrugged it off; he didn't want his comfort, he wanted his cooperation. The tears escaped his eyes. The last thing he wanted was for the oncologist to see him cry. He flung the car door open and scrambled out of the car as quickly as his bum leg would allow him to. He shoved Wilson's phone into his pocket before taking his cane in his left hand and hurrying away from the car towards the store again.

He heard a car door slam behind him and heard Wilson running after him. House knew that he couldn't outrun the younger man, but that didn't mean he stopped. He felt Wilson grab his arm but House kept plowing forward, unwilling to be stopped. He was going to go inside, call for a cab, or a rental, or pay another patron obscenely for a ride back to Princeton and no one was going to stop him.

"Let go, Wilson!" House yelled in warning. "I don't want to have to hurt you again but I will if you try to stop me!"

"I'm sorry House," he heard the Oncologist say, tightening his grip on his arm. The diagnostician didn't see the hypodermic needle in his friend's other hand before it was jabbed into the _splenius capitis_ muscle in his neck and its contents emptied into him with a burning sensation. House reached around and grabbed the needle but he knew it was too late. He felt himself become lightheaded before his body gave out beneath him. Wilson caught him, keeping his friend from falling full speed onto the concrete. House lay on his back, staring up at Wilson as his vision began to blur.

"Turnaround's a bitch," He heard his best friend sadly say just before House lost consciousness.


	24. Chapter 24

**Reconciliations: A House M.D. Story**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its concept, current story line and characters past and current are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

A/N: I've heard your cry to find out what has happened with Chloe, so here it is.

Songs that helped inspire this chapter include: "Who Are You?" by The Who and "Heard the World" by OAR.

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

Detective Hal Molonitny waited impatiently as Hunt searched through one of the file folders on Detective Angle's desk. The blond man found the form he was looking for.

"This is a statement made by a Mr. Peter Kendleman. He was present in the Clinic from the time that Dr. Foreman arrived to when he collapsed. I didn't have time to make copies for you but I'll be sure to do that before the end of the day," Hunt reported. "I'll summarize it to save time. Mr. Kendleman says that when Foreman came into the Clinic he was carrying a cup of coffee. The receptionist gave him two patient files. Before he could take them into the examination room the woman sitting next to him fell out of her seat onto the floor and began to have a seizure. This caused a panic among some of the people in the waiting room. It seemed to attract everyone's attention but he claims to have been an army medic and to him it appeared to be fake.

"Kendleman states that Dr. Foreman set his coffee cup and files down on a magazine table in his rush to aid the woman on the floor. While everyone was distracted, a middle aged man of average height and build moved from one seat to another right next to the magazine table. Kendleman didn't actually see this man pour anything into the cup but saw him replacing the lid. The man then coughed loudly, got up from the chair and casually walked past the receptionist and out of the Clinic. Almost immediately after that the woman came out of her seizure and was taken away."

Molonitny shook his head in amazement. "Let me guess…the middle aged male had neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper hair and the woman with the seizure was in her mid-thirties with shoulder-length medium blonde hair and petite build. Am I right?"

Hunt looked at his partner in amazement. "How did you know that?"

"Because," Molonitny answered, "I had a look at some security camera footage that came back from the lab and that was the description of the two people who carried off the attack on Dr. Hadley last night."

"Hospital ER records state that the woman was taken there to be examined," Hunt continued. "A nurse left her alone behind a curtain to undress. When the nurse returned the woman was gone. No staffers remember seeing her leave."

"Of course not," Angles commented, rolling her grey eyes in derision.

Detective Bob Thiessen smiled. "Well, now we at least know what to look for—if we can just pin some names to them."

"We may be able to," Molonitny said, waving a hardcopy in the air and turning to Angles. "May I use your computer, please?"

"Of course," she replied, moving aside so Molonitny could get near her terminal. He accessed the fingerprint report for House's office, the Hadley crime scene. He gestured for the other three detectives to gather around the monitor to take a look. "Three viable prints were lifted that couldn't be accounted for and were usable. One set actually hit on APHIS." He brought up the criminal record and mug shot of the blonde woman. "Sandra Yolanda Luchak, 33. Ex-Con, her aliases are a list a mile long, as is her record, everything from prostitution charges in Montana, Nevada, New York, Oregon, and Washington state to check fraud and petty larceny charges in Nevada and New York."

"And now she's made herself at home in the Garden State," Thiessen commented. "Looks like she hasn't been caught with her hand in the cookie jar here, yet. I think her luck has finally run out."

"She's violated her parole in New York; there's an APB out for her as we speak," Molonitny said. "If we can force her to spill the beans on her partner, we may be able to get somewhere. We're also looking into some of her past partners in crime for a possible connection. As for the other two prints lifted, they haven't turned up in APHIS or any of the other registries either."

"Well, it's a start," Hunt said optimistically.

The sound of a beeper interrupted their conversation. It was Molonitny's. He checked the message.

"Can I use your phone?" he asked Angles. She nodded. The CI detective called the number on the display.

"Hi, this is Molonitny, what's up, Captain?" he said into the phone. Hunt perked up, as did the Homicide detectives.

"One of your vics has disappeared from her home," Dick Borle told him. "Chloe LaSalle has been reported missing by her daughter. Officers on scene report it looks like abduction. Hunt and you had better get out there."

_Damn!_ Molonitny thought to himself. _How the hell did _that_ happen under the noses of police protection_? He felt a knot forming in the pit of his stomach. He made a mental note to call his wife on the way to LaSalle's home; he was going to miss dinner again tonight.

"We're on it," Molonitny told him and then hung up. He rose from his seat and began to gather up their files. "LaSalle's missing, possible abduction," he told his partner. Hunt was immediately on his feet and helping Molonitny get their evidence and notes together.

"Keep us posted, huh?" Angles told them before Molonitny and Hunt left.

"You got it," Hunt replied and then followed his partner out.

Curled up into the fetal position on the floor of her closet with the doors mostly pulled shut, Sara laid in the dark while listening to the police moving around in her mother's bedroom next door and downstairs, throughout the rest of the house. In an unobserved moment between being riddled with questions from investigators and being checked over by a paramedic to ensure that she was alright the thirteen-year-old had snuck away from the mayhem and retreated to her room. Next to her on the floor was the cordless phone. She sobbed silently, fighting to keep herself from making any noise that would attract more unwanted attention. She had tried calling House back after contacting the police but the phone rang and rang without being answered. He was gone, too. She was all alone, abandoned and terrified.

Sara sat up slowly in what was nearly pitch darkness. She reached blindly with her hand until it found the familiar glass bottle she had placed next to her. Picking it up, Sara unscrewed the cap and brought the bottle to her mouth, taking a large swallow, grimacing as the liquid burned its way down her esophagus towards her stomach. The Vodka had very little taste other than for the ethanol itself. She didn't drink the stuff for the taste, which she found objectionable; Sara sought the rush as the alcohol was absorbed quickly by her empty stomach, travelled her bloodstream, hit her brain with the high she so desperately needed to displace her fear and hurt. She took another couple or three gulps, nearly gagging on them, and then put the lid back on and set the bottle down next to her.

The teen grabbed the cordless phone. Holding it in her hands a moment, she took a deep breath and decided to try again. At first she couldn't recall the number she had earlier committed to memory; the alcohol was befuddling her somewhat. It eventually came to her and she punched the numbers in. It rang four times and Sara was about to give up and hang up when she heard the click of a circuit opening.

"Dr. Wilson," came the same voice that had answered the phone the first time she had called.

"It's Sara," she said softly into the phone, unaware of the fact that she was slurring slightly. "Can I talk to Dr. House, Dr. Wilson?"

"Sara, how are you?" Wilson asked her quickly. "I'm relieved to hear from you. Are you alright? Dr. House…can't come to the phone right now, but you can talk to me."

The thirteen-year old's first impulse was to quickly hang up without saying another word, but something made her resist that urge. "Is Dr. House okay?"

"He's fine," Wilson assured her. "He's just unavailable at the moment. Sara, are you alright? You sound funny."

"I'm okay," she told him, tucking the phone under her chin so her hands were free to open the bottle again. "My Mom's still gone." She took a swallow of vodka before continuing. "I don't know where she is and I'm so scared."

"I know you are, sweetheart, but it's going to be alright. Did you call the police?"

Sara nodded automatically. "Yes…they're here. I don't want to be around them. I'm hiding in my closet…so they can't bother me. They don't know where _Maman_ is either."

Wilson paused a moment before saying, "Sara, you're slurring your words. Are you drinking?"

Sara took another swig. She could really feel the vodka taking effect. "That's why I called…Dr. House told me to call him when I felt like getting wasted."

"House knows that you drink?"

"Yeah, I told him. He said I should talk to him instead, but I was so afraid," the thirteen-year-old slurred. She felt dizzy and leaned against the back wall of the closet. "I guess he'll be mad at me for drinking anyway."

There was another pause, longer than the last, and then the oncologist said carefully. "Nobody is angry at you, Sara. Do you drink often?"

Sara giggled for no reason. She just felt like it. "Lots lately. Helps me not feel so…bad. Don't tell my mom…she'll _freak_."

"Your mom doesn't know that you drink?" Wilson asked her, sounding concerned. "Sara, I want you to stop drinking for me, right now, okay?"

The teen took another swig off of the bottle in spite of his request. "I still feel scared, Dr. Wilson. I'm tired of being scared. I don't want to feel like this anymore."

"I know Sara," the oncologist acknowledged gently, with compassion. "I know you don't, but alcohol won't help you. It'll only hurt you. Dr. House was right…you need to talk to people when you get scared, not get drunk. I want you to get rid of whatever it is you're drinking right now. Just throw it away, okay? Sara? Are you still there, Sara?"

"I'm here," she answered. She set the bottle down beside her. She was beginning to feel better, a little less afraid. "I put the bottle down."

A sigh came over the line to her. "Good, that's good. I want you to talk to me about how you're feeling. Tell me what's going on."

"My mom is gone, and I don't think she's coming back," the teen told him, slurring heavily now. Even though she sat in the dark she felt like she was spinning. "I think she's probably dead. I think Joseph got her and he's gonna get me next."

"I don't understand what you're saying," Wilson told her, sounding concerned again. "You must not think that your mom is dead. I know that she's missing right now but there's no reason to believe that she isn't coming back. It's going to be alright. Who is Joseph?"

"My father," was the girl's reply. She spat his name out as if it were offal. "Joseph beat my mom up all the time. He's a monster—he almost killed my mom an' he killed my baby brother who was still inside her. He's probably the one who took her. He'll kill her an' then he'll come after me. I'm scared, Dr. Wilson." Sara began to cry.

"Sara," Wilson said soothingly, "It's going to be alright, sweetheart. Your mom is going to be alright, okay? Nobody is going to hurt you. Are the police in the house with you right now?"

"Yeah," Sara answered, finding it tricky to talk. "I'm hiding from them."

"I want you to stop hiding, okay?" the oncologist instructed carefully. "I want you to get out of the closet. Can you do that for me right now? Do it for me right now. Stay on the phone with me, okay?"

Sara awkwardly got onto her hands and knees, knocking over the bottle of vodka as she did. She didn't even notice. Her first attempt to get to her feet failed but she managed on the second try. She used the wall to steady herself.

"I'm getting out now," she said into the phone. She fumbled around until she found the opening to the bifold door and pulled it open. With a definite stagger she stepped unsteadily out of the closet into her bedroom proper. The room was also dark but light from the hallway streamed in under the bedroom door.

"Good," Wilson told her. "Can you walk, Sara?"

"Kinda," the thirteen-year-old confirmed. "It's kind of hard."

Wilson sighed. "Okay, this is what you do. I want you to find your bed and sit down. Stay on the phone. Can you do that?"

"Yeah," she answered, staggering and swaying to her bed, flopping onto it. "Okay. I'm on my bed, Dr. Wilson. Now what?"

There was a pause again then the oncologist's voice returned clearly. "Okay. I want you to call out to the police. They're probably looking for you, wondering where you went. Just ask someone to come and help you. When they come, give them the phone so I can talk to them and explain what's going on. Don't hang up and call them now."

"'Kay," she agreed. Sara began to call out loudly for help. She only had to do it a couple of times before her bedroom door opened and two uniformed police rushed into her room.

"Where have you been?" one of them asked her, appearing relieved to see her. He reached to the radio mouthpiece clipped to the shoulder of his uniform and transmitted that Sara had been located safe.

Sara didn't bother trying to explain, simply handing the phone to the cop. She laid back on the bed, feeling like she was going to be sick. She listened in to the one-sided conversation as Wilson explained to the officer who he was and what was going on with her. The voice of the cop was slowly sounding further and further away until Sara could barely make out what he was saying. She was so sleepy. Closing her eyes she felt herself drift away.

She had been drugged. As Chloe slowly emerged from unconsciousness it was one of the first thoughts she had. The second was that she was very cold. Her first sense to return was touch. She felt something cushioned but firm pushing up against the length of her body from the back of her head, down past he shoulder blades and lower back, her buttocks, thighs, calves and heels. She wasn't ready yet to determine whether or not the sensations were uncomfortable. Next she felt the coldness on the skin of her face, her neck, her arms and hands—pretty much anywhere her skin was exposed. This chill seeped through her clothing to the skin underneath. Finally she became aware that her arms were stretched together up above her head and her legs were being pulled away from her body and were about shoulder's width apart. There was a burning pain around her ankles and wrists and her hands and feet felt numb. She was bound; when she tried to move she realized that she lay bound like she was on some variation of a medieval rack. The first sound she heard was the dripping of a tap into something metal. It was constant, drip, drip, drip. Following that she could hear herself breathe; she moaned softly and heard that as well. She could smell mold and wet concrete, and in her mouth she felt a strip of heavy material rolled up and passed between her teeth then pulled tightly around the head, acting as a gag. There was the faint metallic taste of blood and salt and fabric softener.

Once she was aware enough to make the conscious decision to do so the chaplain slowly opened her eyelids. They felt as if they had been weighted down and it took a great deal of effort to force them open. The first thing she noticed was that the lighting was very low; it wasn't pitch-black. Rather, it was like her bedroom in the middle of the night with the curtains open. A dull blue light allowed her to see blurry outlines of objects around her, but nothing was easily seen, crisp or focused. Color was non-existent. For a few moments she laid motionless, her eyes being the only part of her body in motion as they sought out some clue as to where she was.

Very slowly she moved her head, turning it to the right and scanning what she could see. There was a ceiling above her that was nothing more than studs and the plywood of the floor above, all supported by wooden beams placed at equal distances apart. The entire area appeared to be one large room, not walled off. The walls were unfinished, simply studs with pink foam insulations stuffed between them There were two openings high on the walls that were covered with dark, draped material; Chloe guessed that they were windows behind those drapes. The floor was a slab of poured concrete, darker in some spots than others. The darker areas were likely moisture, hence the smell. A wooden utility staircase angled up from the floor to the ceiling. Along the perimeter were metal shelving units that stood tall enough to nearly reach the low ceiling, perhaps six feet in height, she guessed. They held miscellaneous items from sleeping bags to canning jars to plastic storage bins. There were no lamps; three bare bulbs hung from the ceiling with pull cords dangling from them.

Chloe turned her head to the left and saw pretty much of the same except on that side she could see what appeared to be a washing machine and dryer pair against the far wall.

_A basement_, Chloe finally concluded, beginning to be able to interpret the sensory input her brain was receiving. But where? She swallowed and winced. Her throat was raw and sore as she imagined it would feel if she had swallowed or breathed in something corrosive. She could see that beneath her was a twin sized bed frame with wrought iron head and foot boards, to which her hands and feet were bound. She laid on a bare twin-sized mattress; there were no sheets or blankets, or a pillow for that matter.

_Dear God, where am I_? She prayed as desperation grew in her. She was afraid and angry. Trying as she might she couldn't remember being drugged. The last thing she remembered was climbing into the back of a van and being bound, gagged and blindfolded with duct tape but she couldn't recall being given anything to eat, drink, or breathe just before passing out. Perhaps she had been injected with something, but she couldn't remember that occurring, either.

Chloe lifted her head up slightly to get a better look around, hoping her eyes would be able focus at least a little better, but they didn't. How long had she been out? Minutes? Hours? She couldn't even tell if it was day or night. This all led to a sense of disorientation. She had to lay her head back down because she didn't have the strength to keep it up; the chaplain was still weakened from her concussion.

_Sara_, she thought suddenly, just that moment remembering her daughter had been left behind all alone. Was she alright? Had her abductor kept his word and left her unharmed? How terrified she must have been, finding her mother missing! Would she be able to think clearly enough to call the police? The police…they had been parked on the street right in front of her home. Why hadn't they noticed her abductor enter her home or force her out at gun point to the waiting van? Did any of her neighbors notice anything? Her mind spun with random thoughts as her drug-befuddled mind tried to make some sense of what all had happened.

A flash of light and the sound of footfall descending the stairs attracted her attention and she strained to see what was happening. It was her abductor coming down, carrying a folding chair with him. She noticed again his large size and height. He still wore the same clothes he had worn when she discovered him waiting for her in her bedroom, and she couldn't help but think how out of place he appeared to be in them. For some reason he looked like he belonged in a suit or a sports jacket and dress pants with a shirt and tie. In fact, she realized, he looked like he should have been a plain clothes cop. Why she thought that she didn't know.

Chloe felt afraid but not terrified, which surprised her under the circumstances. Perhaps it was still the trace of whatever knock-out drug that had been used on her still in her veins, or perhaps it was God calming her. She just didn't know. What she did know was that she was in tremendous danger. For all she knew, he was coming down to kill her. The thought of leaving Sara alone in the world without a loving parent to care for her caused tears to flood the chaplain's eyes and overwhelming regret to fill what room in her heart wasn't already occupied by fear. Likewise, the idea of never seeing House again and having the opportunity for their relationship to grow grieved her.

Mr. Tall walked to the end of her bed and unfolded the chair, setting it on the floor facing her. He pulled the cord on the light socket above his head and the room suddenly appeared in Technicolor. He approached her and leaned over to untie her gag.

"If you yell, Chloe," he warned her quietly, "I'll put the gag back on. You understand?"

She nodded emphatically, beginning to tremble with his proximity. He reached behind her head and untied the gag, removing it. He stepped back and took a seat in the chair. Chloe flexed the muscles in her jaw and lips. The corners of her mouth stung fairly badly but otherwise everything seemed to be alright.

"Who are you?" Chloe asked tentatively. It hurt her throat and her voice was too soft and hoarse for her liking. "Why are you doing this?"

Mr. Tall gave her an amused smile and folded his hands on his lap.

"I told you," he replied, "I'm an old acquaintance of your boy friend. It's a shame that a woman as lovely as you has such bad taste in men. He's nothing but trouble, you know, and if you're not careful he'll drag you down with him."

Chloe glared at him angrily. He spoke with arrogance and self-assurance. Her abductor didn't seem to be the slightest bit of nervous or regretful. He had a thin smile and cold, cold eyes.

"What's your name?" she insisted.

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Why is it necessary for you to know?"

She cocked her head . "So I can pray for your soul by name," she told him.

"Ah, yes," Mr. Tall nodded. "You're a chaplain. It's interesting that you, of all people, would choose to associate with a junkie like Gregory House."

"Christ associated with sinners all of the time," she told him. "He told his disciples, 'I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners, to repentance'.1 Besides, I'm just another sinner like you and every other person on the planet."

"I'm among the righteous, Chloe," he told her. "So were you, before you took up With House."

Chloe shook her head in disgust but said nothing to that.

"You're here because you're bait," Mr. Tall told her, smirking. "Once House knows I have you, he'll be willing to do pretty much anything to get you freed. You see, Chloe, I'm not interested in hurting you. You're inconsequential to me. But by hurting you—as well as the others associated with House—he gets to see what his corrupt influence is having on others on a whole new level and I slowly destroy him. Slowly is the keyword. I want him to suffer long and hard before I strike the fatal blow."

Chloe felt her heart freeze in her chest. This man was insane! He not only wanted Greg dead but he wanted to torture him first. It was doubtful that he would allow her to see the light of day again once her usefulness to him was over. The chaplain focused hard on keeping her breathing controlled otherwise she knew she would hyperventilate. She couldn't allow herself to panic.

"Why do you want to hurt Greg?" she demanded, genuinely wanting to understand.

"Vengeance, of course," he told her. "He destroyed my career—now I'm going to destroy him."

"What was your career and how did he supposedly destroy it?" she asked, frowning. She wanted to get Mr. Tall talking, hoping that by doing so she would be able to glean what his intentions were for her and what his next action against House was going to be.

"My, you're full of questions!" Mr. Tall laughed coldly. "Inquisitive. Alright. I'll answer some of your questions. Why not? You may call me Michael. I staked my career on trying to force your boyfriend to get his shit together, clean up and change his attitude. In the end he managed to connive his way out of taking responsibility for his reckless and criminal behavior. My superiors blamed me for making them look bad and I was demoted. Eventually they made my life so miserable that I was forced to resign. That's what House does—he destroys lives. He destroyed mine and he'll destroy yours, too, Chloe. It's just a matter of time. You could say that I'm a philanthropist of sorts—I'm ridding the world of a plague, a parasite."

Chloe clenched her fists tightly in anger at the way he talked about the man she loved. She didn't know what he was talking about and couldn't believe that House was responsible for 'Michael's' downfall. It was more likely the man's own hubris had destroyed his career. She noted the choice of words he had used with fascination.

"You're a cop," she said to him confidently, her suspicion confirmed. "I know it. You tried to frame Greg, didn't you? And when it didn't work you destroyed your _own_ future!"

Michael scowled at her hatefully. "I didn't _have_ to frame him, Chloe! He's a corrupt narcotic addict who was spiraling out of control! It was affecting the way he treated his patients. He has no respect for authority, for the law. He corrupted his friends, involving them in prescription fraud and perjury to make certain he kept his own personal pharmacy stocked. He should have gone to prison for his crimes! Instead he pulled one over on the judge, faked his way through rehab and got off scot-free! Nobody is above the law, Chloe. _Nobody_!"

"That's true," the chaplain told him angrily. "Nobody is—not even you! Who's the criminal now, Michael? Who's flouting the law now? You aren't God! Vengeance is His alone. It's not your job to judge and then mete out the punishment!"

"Shut up," the man growled menacingly.

Chloe could see past the man's pompous, self-righteous façade to the frightened, embittered bully underneath. Things hadn't turned out the way he had wanted them to—but instead of facing the failure head on like a man he sought out payback. His self-esteem was so fragile that failure and the resulting humiliation had corrupted his mind and heart. It was easier on his ego to place blame on House than to accept it himself. He was to be pitied, really, but she was too angry.

"You call Greg a criminal, a parasite—but you're really describing yourself!" Chloe sneered in contempt. "_You_ plot the harm and destruction of others. _You're_ the one who is corrupt! You're not good enough to tie Greg's shoes! Greg has cleaned up…he's sober now and making leaps and bounds in his recovery. I don't care what kind of person he _used_ to be—he's already become _twice_ the man you could ever hope, in your wildest dreams, to be! He's courageous—you're nothing but a sniveling bully with his nose out of joint!"

Michael had heard more from her than he was apparently willing to take. He leapt out of his chair so quickly that it folded up on its own and went skidding across the concrete floor. With two long strides he was on her, his face in hers, his giant hands wrapped around her slender neck and squeezing.

"I told you to shut up!" he screamed, his hot, fetid breath and spittle striking Chloe's face.

Her eyes widened in terror as she felt him begin to strangle her. Her basic instinct was to reach with her hands and try desperately to pry his loose but she couldn't; they were bound to the headboard. In fact, she was perfectly helpless to help herself, to do anything but choke. Her face began to turn red and her eyes teared up. She knew that she was going to die. Her temper, her uncontrolled tongue had led her to this and now her life was to be extinguished because of it—yet she didn't regret it. Her lungs ached for air, burned like fire in her chest. Every cell in her body began to cry out for oxygen.

She thought about Sara, wishing that she had just one more chance to tell her how much she loved her and was proud of her. Chloe thought of House, the way he had looked at her in the hospital with love and desire in those dazzling, emotive eyes of his. She wanted to tell him that she loved him--that none of this was his fault— but now she would never have the chance.

As her brain became less and less nourished by oxygen Chloe's thoughts became random, illogical. Half of a prayer for help became faces of family and friends, strangers from the market. Memories of her life coalesced before her eyes…playing in the barn with her sisters as a child…giving birth to Sara…graduating high school…staggering drunkenly out of her house to her car, her sister trying desperately to keep her from getting behind the wheel…House kissing her, his tongue gently caressing hers…sitting on her Grand Maman's lap eating strawberry ice cream at the Canada Day picnic when she was barely old enough to have memories of it at all…sitting in church with her uncle…her father shaking his head at her in disappointment, turning and walking away…riding her bike down a dirt road on a humid August afternoon…a calf sucking her entire hand into its slimy mouth…fireworks in the sky…Joseph beating her in the face…François on top of her with the full weight of his body, forcing himself into her as she tries to scream against his hand clamped over her mouth…Papa carrying her on his shoulders…blowing soap bubbles…bubbles…fire…rain drops…blood…tears…a rose…red…pink…white…grey….black.

* * *

1 From The Holy Bible (The New King James Version): Luke 5:32.


	25. Chapter 25

**Reconciliations: A House M.D. Story**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its concept, current story line and characters past and current are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

A/N: I found this chapter difficult to write because a good portion of it is from Wilson's point of view about his relationship with House and I wanted to stay as true to the established character as I could while advancing my own plot at the same time. I hope I've come at least a little close to succeeding. Please comment, as it really does help me when I'm planning how I'm going to write. For those of you who have been so faithful in reviewing I offer you my deepest thanks!

Songs that helped inspire this chapter include: "Hound Dog" by Elvis Presley and "When I Grow up To Be a Man" by the Beach Boys.

**Chapter Twenty-Five**

"Chloe."

It was Gregory House's first word as he emerged from the netherworld of drug-induced unconsciousness. Even before he could envision her in his mind his subconscious was fixated on her. As his brain woke up he pictured her smile, her doe-like brown eyes, the sexy curves of her body, the sweet scent of rosewater in her silky dark hair, the sweet taste of her mouth on his, the caress of her voice whispering in his ear. This vision of beauty was quickly replaced by an ugly vision. Chloe was lying in the dark, bound, motionless. Her chest failed to rise and fall gently; she didn't breathe. She was slipping away, further away and he knew that he would never be able to catch her in time….

"Chloe!!" House screamed, sitting up, instantly awake. His heart pounded so hard and fast in his chest that the diagnostician thought he was about to have a heart attack. Adrenalin flooded his veins; he panted hard, looking around him like a madman for someone or something that wasn't there. He sweated profusely as his stomach flipped in fear. She was dying—he knew it. Chloe was dying and he didn't know where she was or how he could save her. Desperate tears ran down his cheeks but he didn't notice.

"Greg," a familiar voice said, and a large hand grabbed both forearms gently but firmly. "Greg, can you hear me?"

House turned to the sound of the voice and only just then realized where he was and who was with him. He was in a ward room, on a single bed. It was Mayfield. He was in Mayfield and sitting on the edge of his bed, holding onto him to keep him from jumping to his feet and running away was Dr. Darryl Nolan. The large African-American psychiatrist was observing him with obvious concern.

"Nolan," House panted, every muscle in his body wanting to bolt. "I have to find her! I can't be here. Chloe's been taken!"

"I know," Nolan told him calmly, nodded. He didn't release his grip on his patient. "Greg, you need to calm down! You're breathing much too hard and quickly and I'm concerned for your physical health right now! I need you to focus on taking deep, slow breaths, okay? I'm going to check your pulse, but I need you to relax and promise not to get out of bed."

House didn't know what to say. He was operating on instinct, and his 'reasonable' mind was being overwhelmed by its 'emotional' counterpart. All the same, he didn't push past his therapist. The psychiatrist had a hand on the diagnostician's wrist as he checked his radial pulse.

"One hundred and forty-seven—far too fast," Nolan told him, shaking his head. "Greg, you need to lie back down." He turned to a nurse whom was standing in the doorway, unnoticed by the diagnostician until just then. "I need one mg of Ativan right away!"

The nurse moved quickly. House resisted the gentle pressure his therapist put on his shoulders in an attempt to make him lie down.

"I can't stay here!" House insisted, yelling louder. "She could be dying as we speak! I have to help find her—please!"

The desperation in his own voice startled House. He was nearly hysterical—there was no doubt in his mind that Chloe had been kidnapped by the same people who had nearly killed Thirteen and Foreman and had succeeded at killing Taub. There was no reason to believe that they would treat Chloe any differently. He couldn't lie down and relax and wait for news that she was dead. His heart wrenched at the idea and he felt sick to his stomach.

"You can't help her if you end up having a heart attack," Nolan said firmly. "Please lie down on your own or I'm going to be forced to call for help to see it done for you. I don't want to do that to you, Greg, so please lie back for me now!"

House resisted a moment longer, searching his therapist's face for any sign of weakness and finding none. He actually hadn't expected to find any. Nolan was okay, but he could be a hard-ass when he wanted to be—or needed to be. Finally House relented, lying back down.

"Thank you," Nolan said to him in relief. A minute or two later the nurse returned with a small paper cup. Inside were two zero point five milligram tablets of sublingual Ativan. Nolan took it from her with a nod of thanks and then handed it to House. "Put these under your tongue."

House obeyed and felt them begin to dissolve into his saliva, some of it absorbed directly into the tissue under his tongue and some of it going down his throat every time he swallowed. Nolan took the empty cup from him and rose to throw it out into a small wastebasket near the door. When he did so, House spied Wilson sitting in a chair silently against the wall, having been blocked from House's sight by the psychiatrist.

Wilson looked serious. House locked his icy blue eyes on the oncologist's, hurt rising to the surface.

"You drugged me," the diagnostician said, his voice as cold and hard as steel.

"I didn't have any other choice, House," Wilson replied, sotto voce. "You were ready to run off half-cocked to get yourself into a lot of trouble."

"There _was_ another choice!" House insisted. "You could have _helped _me."

"I _did_ help you," Wilson told him. "You need to be here, _especially_ now. If you were back in Princeton circling around your office at PPTH or pacing at the apartment you'd be a basket case by now. Who knows—you could be flying higher than a kite in an effort to control the fear and pain—or you could be dead, because you simply couldn't deal with it."

"And being here is going to change that how?" the diagnostician asked angrily.

"Here you are safe," Nolan interrupted. He moved to stand at the end of the bed. "I don't approve of the way James got you here, Greg, but I do believe this is the best place for you now. James has assured me that he will keep you updated on Chloe and the others and I assure you that I will not hold back or censor anything he reports from you. I'm also telling you that as long as it doesn't compromise your treatment here you have my okay to continue your investigative work here."

"But Chloe--!" House began to protest only to be cut off.

"Chloe is no closer to being found with you in Princeton than she is with you here," the psychiatrist argued evenly. "Until her location is identified you can't do anything there anyway. At least here, Greg, you're safe from being attacked and killed by anyone, including _you_." Nolan paused a moment to allow that to sink in. "Our security here is considerably higher than that of Princeton-Plainsboro for a good reason."

House was frustrated at their inability to understand how urgently he needed to be in the thick of things. He didn't want to hear secondhand from Wilson that Chloe had been freed or had been found dead. It was crucial that he was in Princeton so he could act on a moment's notice. Why couldn't they understand that?

"I don't care about my own security," the diagnostician insisted. "It doesn't matter what happens to _me_!"

"And just because it matters to the rest of us that _you're_ alive and well isn't of any significance." Wilson told him with an edge of bitterness in his voice. He was rubbing the back of his neck, something he did when he was upset or, more commonly, when he was frustrated. "Because if anything happened to you, House, I'm not certain…what _I_ would do."

You'd do just fine," House answered with a scowl. "I'm the needy one, not you. Think of all the free time you'll find when you're no longer burdened with worrying about me. You'd have time to find and entertain future wife number four."

"Do you honestly think that's what this is about?" Wilson exclaimed, hurt. "You're _not_ a burden to me, House. You're my best friend. I've made a lot of mistakes—I've treated you like a child, lecturing and moralizing for which I truly am sorry—but having you as a part of my life isn't one of them. Do you remember what we discussed last night? Do you remember what I told you?"

"You only said it in response to me," House accused. "It was the 'polite' thing to say."

Nolan looked from Wilson to House, his face and body language displaying his obvious confusion. "What conversation are you talking about?" the psychiatrist asked. "What statement are you referring to?"

House didn't say anything. He stared at the ceiling. This was not what he wanted to be doing just then. All he wanted to do—_needed_ to do—was find Chloe and make certain that she was going to be alright. He didn't desire delving deeply into a psychoanalytical discussion of the intricacies of the meaning of his relationship with the oncologist.

When House didn't answer the question, Wilson did. "Last night I had House sleep on a mattress on the floor in my room so I could keep an eye on him. We were talking about his desire to commit suicide. I tried to make him understand that I cared about him enough that if he died I…I would be all alone and I told him not to do that to me. After I said that House thought about it for a little while and then told me that he loves me."

"Great!" House said indignantly, still not meeting anyone's gaze. "Why don't you just tell the whole world while you're at it!"

Wilson ignored the outburst. "In response I told him that I love him too. And I _do_. I'm frightened what may happen to you, House, and that's why I drugged you to make certain you got here. I admit that it was…wrong. I'm sorry. But it's not like you haven't drugged me before to prevent me from harming myself."

House considered that a moment. He had given Wilson a knock-out drug at the medical convention a couple of weeks earlier to prevent him from presenting his paper on euthanasia and potentially destroying his career in the process. However, this situation was different as far as the diagnostician was concerned. He was not in any immediate danger and wouldn't be—at least, not until he knew whether or not Chloe was okay. Forcing him back to Mayfield may be a contributing factor should Chloe…die.

"I did it to keep you from doing something incredibly stupid," House told him quietly.

"So did I," Wilson replied and the two men locked eyes.

Nolan listened with fascination the interaction between the men. He had remained silent, not interrupting but now he did speak up. "Greg, what do you think is the underlying message Wilson is expressing to you?"

The diagnostician gritted his teeth together and didn't respond. He knew that Wilson had meant well but it didn't change the fact that he was now trapped in a box, unable to get out and join the hunt for the woman he had fallen in love with. He wanted to let his best friend off of the hook, but for some reason he just couldn't; once Chloe was home alive and well, perhaps…but not now, not yet.

Wilson waited quietly, watching his friend carefully for some form of recognition of his feelings, but there was none.

"What are you feeling Greg?" Nolan probed patiently.

"Helpless," House muttered resignedly.

"That's an adjective," Nolan reminded him, "not a feeling. Give me an emotion."

"Anger," was the snappish response. "Fear, sorrow. Good enough for you?"

Nolan nodded. "Yes." The psychiatrist turned to Wilson and asked him the same question.

"I don't know," the oncologist answered. "I guess, for the most part, I feel afraid. I'm afraid of losing my best friend, either by him never forgiving me or by him killing himself should things turn out badly. Either way, I'm not certain if I could…." His voice trailed off as he had difficulty expressing what came next.

"Take your time," Nolan told him gently. "You're not certain you could…?"

Sighing, Wilson said slowly, "I'm not certain I could handle it."

The psychiatrist nodded and then asked, "What do you mean by 'handle'? What would that look like?"

House refused to look over at Wilson but his hard expression had softened somewhat and he listened carefully, waiting for the answer.

Apparently struggling with revealing something so deeply personal, Wilson didn't answer right away. When he did he avoided Nolan's penetrating gaze, staring at the bottom of House's foot instead.

"If House killed himself…I think I would…too."

The diagnostician's eyes were pained but he tried to cover for it by frowning angrily. It wasn't convincing.

"Don't be stupid!" he told the oncologist. "That's the most idiotic thing I have ever heard you say!"

"Greg," Nolan said to him. "It's not idiotic. It's how he feels. He's just as entitled to his feelings as you are yours without being insulted for them. You sound angry. Is that how you're feeling about what James just said?"

Despite the look of warning he received from his therapist House sat up but made no move to get up from the bed. "Yes...no. I don't know!"

"You _do_ know," Nolan told him simply. "Tell us."

House searched for words to speak. "You have a lot to live for, Wilson, even if I was no longer around!"

"_Feelings_," Nolan emphasized.

The diagnostician exhaled in frustration. "Yes, I feel _angr_y! How could he even think of doing such a thing?" He looked at Wilson, capturing his brown-eyed gaze. "Don't you know how much hearing you say that hurts me?" The moment the words were out of his mouth House wished he could retract them. _Too close_, he told himself. _Too personal. Damn it! __Damn Nolan!_

"Yes," the oncologist told him meaningfully. "Just about as much as it hurts me when you say it—and I meant _every word_."

They stared at each other for what seemed to be several minutes as if Nolan was no longer in the room. House was trying to glean something from his friend's face that he'd suspected for a long time but had never allowed himself to entertain for more than a moment or two before dismissing it as utterly ridiculous.

"Are you…," House asked tentatively, "are you…_in_…love with me?"

There was a heartbeat's length of a pause before Wilson broke eye contact and rolled his eyes in derision. "Pff! Yeah, right! You wish!" He failed to look back at House, looking at House's foot again instead.

House said nothing, pondering that. There had been no surprised reaction upon being asked that, but neither had his best friend responded too adamantly that he was not. His question remained unanswered.

"I'm sorry," he told the oncologist quietly. "I didn't realize it bothered you that much. I won't say it to you again."

Wilson sighed. "All I want is for you not to _think_ about it again."

Silence followed. Nolan broke it. "Greg, do you honestly believe that you could promise him right now that you wouldn't think about harming yourself should Chloe be killed?"

The answer to that was obvious. The diagnostician contemplated lying and saying yes, but for some reason he couldn't bring himself to say that. Reluctantly he shook his head in negation. He _did_ belong here. He _knew_ it, but he absolutely didn't want to be. _Fuck_, he said to himself, closing his eyes and laying back down.

As he laid there with his eyes shut, he tried not to think about what he was feeling. A sudden thought unrelated to what they had just been discussing popped into his head.

"Sara," he said, opening his eyes and finding Wilson with them. "Did she ever call back?"

"Yes," Wilson answered, nodding, "while you were out cold. She didn't sound good."

"Sara?" Nolan interrupted in curiosity. "Who is she?"

"Chloe's thirteen-year-old daughter," House answered quickly, not feeling the need to explain any further. "What do you mean she didn't sound good?"

"She'd been drinking," Wilson admitted. "Quite a bit from the sounds of it. She said that you knew that she did this. Did you?"

House sighed silently and nodded. "She told me this morning when we were talking. She said she drinks when she's frightened or upset. It started not long after Chloe's fall and brain trauma that took her over a year of therapy to recover from." He proceeded to tell Wilson and Nolan briefly the account Chloe had told him, particularly about how it had been Sara who found her and got emergency help. "I told her to call me _before_ she drank and we could talk about it," he finished.

Nolan smiled. "So you made a connection with her. She obviously trusted you enough to call you. That's great! I wouldn't recommend keeping this from her mother, however."

House nodded in agreement, shifting uncomfortably due to the compliment. "I told her I wouldn't betray her trust so long as I didn't think what she told me could endanger her, but if there _was_ something then I would have to break my promise. I intended on telling Chloe, but haven't so far. Wilson, what did you tell her?"

"I told her to stop hiding from the police in her house and to find one of them for help," was the answer. "I stayed on the phone with her while she did it and then explained it to the police when they found her. They assured me she would be taken care of. I then offered to allow her to stay with me until her mother was found. They'll be getting back to me on that sometime this evening."

"Renting out my bed already," House said, smirking. "I'm suddenly feeling insecure."

"If I'm lucky," Wilson said with an amused smile, "_she_ won't snore loudly enough to wake the neighbors up at night."

"Haven't heard yourself lately, have you?" House retorted sarcastically.

Wilson smiled sadly. House knew what that meant: it was time for the oncologist to go back to Princeton, and leave him behind. House felt his fear and frustration rise up inside of him again, so much so that his chest began to feel tight, a thousand butterflies began to swirl about his stomach like a twister and his breathing began to quicken considerably. This wasn't lost on either Nolan or Wilson.

"Greg," Nolan told him, "I want you to begin to take slow, deliberate breaths in through your nose and out through your mouth."

House frowned at him but reluctantly complied; and just as he had suspected it didn't seem to work.

"House," Wilson told him, rising from his chair and approaching the bed, kneeling next to it by his friend's side. "I promise—I'll keep you updated on what's happening back in Princeton. If there is so much as a whisper about Chloe, I'll call Nolan and leave the message with him, and I'll be up to see you on visiting day." He hesitated and then placed a comforting hand on House's forearm; the diagnostician wasn't fond of a great deal of touch, but from certain people he was a little more receptive. Wilson was one of those select few. "Greg, it's going to be alright." He whispered.

"What if something happens to you next," House whispered back. "Losing one of you will be more than I can handle. I don't know what will become of me if I lose both of you."

"You won't," Wilson assured. "I promise."

House shook his head emphatically, feeling his heart begin to race. "Don't!" he told the oncologist sternly. "Don't promise something you can't guarantee!"

Wilson released his grip on his friends arm and stood up, taking a step back. His face was a graven image of regret. "I'll be fine. You will be too. Cooperate for the staff. I really have to go."

House was panting now, and the pain in his leg was quickly increasing with his anxiety.

"Be careful!" House told the oncologist as the latter reached the door.

"I will be," Wilson said simply and then turned and walked out.

"Oh, god!" House whispered in response to his anxiety and his fear.

Nolan grabbed the chair Wilson had vacated and pulled it up to House's bedside, seating himself in it. "You need to relax, Greg."

"What if that's the last time I see him alive?" House asked him, not expecting an answer because the only answer in his mind to that was one thing: he would die as well. The diagnostician rolled over to face the wall. He didn't want anyone—not even Nolan—to see him cry. He heard the psychiatrist speaking to him but the words sounded like nothing but gibberish and that frustrated him. He curled up into the fetal position, closed his eyes and delved into himself, thereby shutting out the world.

* * *

Wilson walked briskly across the parking lot to his car and jumped in, slamming the door shut. He gripped the steering wheel with both hands, squeezing as tightly as he was capable and leaned his forehead against it, squeezing his eyes shut. Leaving House behind the first time had been excruciatingly painful; the idea of his best friend alone subject to the authority of complete strangers, save Darryl, that is, had caused him nightmares. He had felt like he was abandoning him again, just as he had nearly a year before. Those same feelings still rose up inside of him to strangle him where he sat. He _knew_ he was doing the best thing he could for the diagnostician, but that head-knowledge didn't translate well into _heart-knowledge_.

He took a few deep breaths and then forced himself to sit up straight and look out the windshield at the looming brick institution that was Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital. The sickening feeling of déjà-vu was palpable in the air around him. For one fleeting second Wilson considered running back into the hospital and liberating the older doctor, but that moment passed and he was once again reminded that House was safer there than anywhere else.

Turning the key in the ignition he could hear the car roar softly to life and he simply sat there a moment longer, allowing the vibration from the running motor to pass through his body, imagining that the waves of energy were washing away with them all of the anxiety and tension in his body. While the exercise didn't eliminate all of his discomfort, it was enough to allow him to drive out of the parking lot and down the long driveway towards the gates of the hospital property.

As he drove further and further away from Mayfield and closer to home, Wilson mulled over the conversation in House's room after the older man had awakened. He believed he understood his best friend's desperate need to protect the ones he loved—because that's how he felt about House. He didn't fully understand his relationship with the older man. It was a deep and abiding friendship, but it was more than that. House was like a brother to him, only closer than that as well. In truth, he was like a lover to Wilson, without the physical intimacy. It couldn't be explained or quantified; all he knew was that he'd easily give his life for the diagnostician if it ever came to that.

_So why am I so angry at him?_ Wilson asked himself. In truth, he already had the answer to that; he just didn't want to admit it, even to himself, because it made him feel like a petty jerk. _I am a petty jerk,_ he told himself bitterly. He sighed, shaking his head in disgust.

He was angry at the diagnostician because the other man had Chloe's heart, and he did not.

Wilson wondered if his best friend really understood how betrayed he felt about the way House had snuck behind his back and wooed the Goddess. It seemed like the older doctor thought it was humorous the way he had fooled him, that it was just another competition between the two of them and he had simply been more ingenious and as a result won the prize. Not that the oncologist believed that the love House professed to have for Chloe was a lie; the mere fact that there _was_ a confession of such strong feelings from a man who had lived most of his life in denial of feeling _anything_ spoke for the genuine nature of his feelings. What the older doctor didn't seem to understand was that Chloe was more than just another skirt Wilson was chasing. As ridiculous as it sounded, when he first saw Chloe yesterday morning—was it really only a day and a half ago?—it had been love at first sight. The oncologist had always been cynical about claims made by other people that such a thing existed until he had experienced it himself. It must have been similar for House—it had been less than two days and the older man was already smitten. The fact that the two men shared that in common did nothing to alleviate his anger.

It had taken Wilson nearly two long years to get to the point where his grieving over Amber's death had subsided enough that he was able to look at another woman and consider dating again. Even so, he had been struggling with guilt over his feelings for Chloe, second-guessing himself over and over. The fact that he was tired of being lonely for the kind of love his best friend could not give him was the one driving force that kept him from crawling back under the rock he had just emerged from and grieving for another two years. Meeting the chaplain had given him a sense of hope for a future that he had been missing for far too long.

It burned in his chest to know that she loved House about as much as the older doctor loved her.

_She should be mine, _Wilson thought enviously._ She should be in love with me. If House hadn't undercut me, she would be._

He was so confused. He loved House but he was angry and jealous of him at the same time. He wanted the best for his friend and wanted to be happy for him, but he wasn't. What kind of friend did it make him to want to take away and possess the one thing that had brought a modicum of happiness to the older man in an otherwise miserable life? Then again, Wilson wondered, what about his _own_ happiness, his _own_ needs? Wasn't he, too, entitled to be happy? Wilson had no idea how to resolve this struggle in his heart. If only he had never seen Chloe—then the oncologist could be the kind of friend House deserved and could be happy for him. If only….

His thoughts were cut off by his cell phone ringing. He answered.

"Dr. Wilson," he said simply.

"Hello, Doctor. My name is Esther Hamilton; I'm a social worker with Child Protective Services in Princeton."

The oncologist sat up higher in his seat. "Yes, Ms. Hamilton. Hello! I've been expecting your phone call."

"I'm calling in regard to the offer you made to the police to foster Sara LaSalle until her mother is able to resume the responsibility," the social worker told him. "I made contact with her mother's next of kin about it. They all reside in Canada but Sara and her mother have dual citizenship between Canada and the United States. Sara's aunt who is listed as the contact person has given her approval for you to foster her niece temporarily; however she wants to speak with you directly as a condition. If you're still willing to do so, we've approved you."

"Wow," Wilson said in mild surprise. "That was quicker than I thought it would be! Yes, I'm still willing and speaking with the aunt is absolutely no problem. I'm currently on my way back to Princeton and I suspect I'll be home by eight o'clock. Is that too late for you?"

"There is no rush this evening, Doctor," Hamilton told him. "Because she was inebriated Sara was taken to the hospital for observation overnight but should be discharged by tomorrow morning. We can meet tomorrow to work out the details and transfer the child to your custody."

"That's fine," the oncologist answered. "Which hospital was Sara taken to, by the way?"

"To Princeton-Plainsboro. Oh! I see in my information here that is where you're employed, as is Sara's mother."

Wilson nodded automatically, forgetting that the social worker couldn't see the gesture. "Uh, yes, that's right," he acknowledged. "Would there be any problem with me visiting her tonight before I go home?"

"There's a CPS worker staying with her overnight as well as a police guard for the child's protection," Hamilton answered, "However I can notify our person there that you will be stopping by and have permission to visit."

"Thank you," Wilson said, relieved. He had been worrying about Sara since his last conversation with her. "What time tomorrow would you like to meet and where?"

"If we could meet at your home, say eleven a.m.?" she asked.

"Of course, that's fine.

"Very good, Doctor Wilson," Hamilton told him. "If for any reason you need to change the time or place, just call our office in Princeton. The automated switchboard will ask you for a name. Just say Hamilton and it will transfer you to my voicemail where you can leave a message—I check it regularly."

"Great!" Wilson said to her. "I'll see you tomorrow, then."

"Excellent. Good evening."

"Good evening," Wilson said in return and hung up, placing his cell phone back into a slot in the console. He exhaled in relief and smiled mildly. He was glad to know that Sara wouldn't end up with a total stranger; House would be relieved to know that as well. The oncologist smiled and shook his head in amazement; last spring the diagnostician wouldn't have given a damn about the disposition of someone else's thirteen-year-old child. It was good to actually see so clearly evidence of his best friend's healing. This stint in Mayfield was just a pothole in that road…he hoped.

Once he reached Princeton Wilson diverted from the usual route he would take to get back to his apartment and headed for PPTH instead.

At the hospital he headed quickly through the main lobby towards the elevator, marveling at the heightened security and police presence. Two uniformed police manned the main entrance where one security guard was under normal circumstances. A couple of others stood around to offer a presence. He noticed that the Clinic was still closed; a Uniform and yellow tape remained outside the door to dissuade any curious individual from straying onto the crime scene and potentially contaminating evidence. Inside the Clinic Wilson could see two investigators still at work.

He headed first to his office to drop off his jacket. His Assistant had laid his mail on his desk before leaving for the weekend. There were several envelopes and one parcel wrapped in brown shipping paper labeled 'medical samples'. He resisted the urge to look through it all; it was the weekend, he was off duty until Monday. It could wait until then.

Wilson brought up the admitting information on his computer—a little harmless hacking trick House had shown him—and located the room Sara had been assigned. It was a private room on a general ward. Armed with that information he headed there. Upon arrival he found the room being guarded by yet another uniformed officer. Wilson flashed him some I.D. and the cop went into the room. He watched as the officer spoke with a middle-aged woman sitting in a chair by the door. She nodded and then the cop returned to his post.

"You can go in," the officer told him.

Wilson nodded his thanks and stepped into the room. He addressed the CPS worker before approaching the bed. She barely acknowledged him before returning to the Harlequin novel she was reading. The oncologist went to the bed and pulled up a chair; he sat down.

Sara was sleeping, snoring lightly. Her long caramel-colored hair was splayed out across the white hospital pillow beneath her head. She looked pale. He imagined she hadn't slept a great deal the night before with her mother in hospital in serious condition. If it wasn't for the alcohol she drank he doubted that she would be sleeping now. She had Chloe's high cheek bones and pouty lips. In House's office the girl had looked like she was a little on the stocky side but lying in the bed now she looked quite fragile and petite. He hesitantly touched a lock of her hair. It was silky soft in his fingers.

After his last marriage had failed, Wilson had mused over the fact that once again his chance for a normal life, with a wife and perhaps a child or two was never to be. He was in his forties already and a part of him was beginning to contemplate his life and his contributions to the world. A legacy was one of the things he considered. He was a good doctor, some would say a great doctor, and he had contributed to the healing of a great number of people from cancer—he'd also lost a large number, but that was to be expected in his field. He was a good friend—not a perfect friend by any means. Heaven knew how many mistakes he'd made when it came to his best friend, but he wasn't a total jerk either. Yet, he felt there was something missing.

He wondered what it would be like to have children of his own. Wilson had hoped that eventually he and Amber would marry and have a family of their own. He had felt ready for that stage of his life. Amber's death had ended that dream and he had convinced himself that it would never come true with anyone else.

_Would I be a good father?_ he wondered as he looked down at Sara. _Could I commit myself to that kind of responsibility and not end up resenting it in the long run?_ The oncologist wasn't one hundred per cent certain, but he questioned if anyone was certain about that sort of thing until it was thrust upon them by fate, or God or whatever else kept the universe in place.

Wilson sighed and shook his head at himself; dwelling on the matter wouldn't change anything. If anything was to change, it would require him to do something about it. He gently touched the girl's face and then got up to leave. She would probably sleep until morning. He was tired and was ready to go to bed as well. Rising from the chair he headed back to his office for his jacket; it was time to head home.


	26. Chapter 26

**Reconciliations: A House M.D. Story**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its concept, current story line and characters past and current are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

A/N: Here is the long-awaited update on Chloe! Enjoy and remember to review!

Songs that helped inspire this chapter include: "One More Round" by BarlowGirl and "Invincible" by Pat Benatar.

**Chapter Twenty-Six**

Lisa Cuddy sauntered into her kitchen in her bathrobe; her internal clock was used to waking early weekday mornings for work and she didn't know to press snooze on the weekends. So, she decided she would make the best of it and prepare breakfast for Lucas, Rachel and her. She figured pancakes were in order. She started the coffeemaker and then went hunting in her pantry for the pancake mix she almost never used. On most mornings she was in too much of a hurry getting Rachel dressed, fed and ready for the sitter and then getting herself ready for work. If she was lucky she would grab a coffee and a bagel at the hospital cafeteria before starting her work day. Making an actual breakfast was a novelty for her.

Finding the mix she set to work preparing breakfast. As she did she watched the Saturday morning news on the small LCD TV she kept in the kitchen. Normally she preferred to have soft music playing in the background but with the hectic week she'd had she was behind on her current events and decided to catch up—it was faster than reading the paper.

She heard Rachel squealing happily in her crib as she did most mornings when she woke up on her own; most days Cuddy had to wake her to get her ready for the sitter before work…that is, when Lucas wasn't around. Fortunately the mother hadn't begun actually cooking yet so she coul go to her baby. She was halfway down the hallway when she heard a male voice laughing from the nursery. Lucas had beat her to it. She continued to the room and stood in the doorway, watching her boyfriend as he held Rachel in his arms and was lifting the baby up above his head and then bringing her down again. Every time he raised her up so that she was looking down at him she giggled, causing Lucas to laugh with her.

It was heartwarming to Cuddy to see this loving interaction between her daughter and her lover. There was no doubt in her mind that Lucas genuinely loved Rachel; he wasn't just pretending to care to impress her mother. Watching them gave the doctor a sense of peace. This was what she had dreamt of—a family for her daughter, a father-figure—and potential father—who genuinely loved her and didn't resent Rachel for the attention Cuddy showed her instead of on him. A father-figure who was tender, gentle, stable and unafraid of commitment: In other words, not Gregory House.

House had never liked Rachel, was jealous of and resentful of her. He had wanted Cuddy's undivided attention and hence was cold towards the baby in comparison to Lucas. The diagnostician was terrified of commitment and wasn't the most stable individual in the world. She could not imagine him getting out of bed early on a Saturday morning to tend to a baby, much less play and laugh with one. It was moments like this that convinced the doctor she had made the right choice by choosing Lucas over House. She only wished her heart was as convinced of that as her mind was.

"Good morning!" Cuddy said, stepping into the room and up to her boyfriend and baby. "I heard all the fun and wanted to join in."

Lucas looked over at her with a smile and brought Rachel down, holding her close to his body as he leaned over and kissed Cuddy, his lips lingering on hers before drawing away. "Good morning," he greeted in return. "Look, Rachel—it's Mommy!" Lucas said, offering the baby to her mother. Cuddy gratefully took her into her arms, cuddling and kissing her. The baby squirmed and kept reaching for Lucas; she wasn't in the mood to cuddle, she wanted to play. Lucas, sensitive to this, took Rachel back and began to play with her again.

"I'm making pancakes for breakfast," the doctor told him, smiling warmly. "They'll be ready in a few minutes. I was just coming to get Rachel and then we were going to wake you up but I see she beat me to it."

"She sure did, didn't you, Sweetie? Yeah, you did! Breakfast sounds great, Babe," the private detective told her enthusiastically. "You go finish what you're doing and I'll take care of the baby and meet you in the kitchen in a bit."

Cuddy nodded, "Sounds good." She kissed her boyfriend's cheek and then padded her way back to the kitchen; she continued preparing breakfast and listening to the news when she heard the anchorwoman say something about a suspected abduction and her hospital. She immediately alerted and grabbed the remote to turn the volume up on the TV.

"…reporter Hanna Quinn was at the scene." The Anchorwoman on the screen said. The video changed to a pre-recorded story at the scene. A night shot of police cars, an ambulance and forensic vans filled the street in front of a modest white two-storey House and garage in an older residential area of Princeton. The pretty woman reported from across the street.

"Police were called early this evening to this quiet neighborhood by a teenager who reported to a nine-one-one operator that her mother was missing and possibly abducted from her home. A spokesman for the Princeton Police Department issued a statement to the press in which he revealed that evidence at the scene strongly indicates that Dr. Chloe LaSalle, employed as a chaplain at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, was abducted from her home late this afternoon by an unknown assailant while her daughter was in the home; the girl was unaware of the incident until she discovered her mother missing and found evidence that the woman had left the home under suspicious circumstances. The police are not releasing details of the crime scene. Spokesman Sgt. Dieter Marshall admits that at this point there is strong reason to believe that this may be connected to a series of assaults including a homicide involving staff of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital; the first incident took place Thursday evening…."

Cuddy stood in front of the TV, spatula in hand, in stunned silence; her jaw had dropped and her eyes were wide open in shock. _LaSalle was abducted_, the Dean of Medicine thought, near panic. _Possibly linked. Not possibly—definitely. I wasn't called by anyone. Not my assistant, not Wilson, not the police, not the hospital P.R. agent…nobody. Gotta call the hospital…gotta call the police…Wilson, does he know?...Gotta go to the hospital…what is that smell?…burning…."_

"Damn!" She hissed, racing back to the griddle where the pancakes were smoking. Cuddy quickly removed the burning food to a waiting platter and rushed it to the sink where she flooded it with water. She ran back to the griddle to turn it off and started the overhead fan on full blast. Next she raced to the window and cranked it open in spite of the fact that it was trying to rain outside. All of this wasn't done quickly enough and her kitchen smoke detector went off, nearly deafening her with its rapid, ear-splitting beeping.

Lucas and Rachel came into the kitchen to see the doctor trying to hit the off button on the detector with the handle of a broom. After a couple if punches at the button she was successful and the beeping silenced. It was replaced by the sound of Rachel screaming in spite of the fact that Lucas pressed one of her little ears to his chest and covered the other with his hand.

"Lise, What happened?" the P.I. asked her.

Cuddy looked at him incredulously. "What happened?" she echoed, amazed at what a stupid question that was. "I burned the pancakes, that's what! I was distracted by a story on the news! Lucas, another member of my staff has been targeted!"

Lucas frowned, remaining calm. "Who?" he asked curiously, bouncing on his toes in an effort to calm Rachel.

Cuddy looked at him, wishing she could be as unflappable as he was. "Chloe LaSalle, the new Chaplain I told you about…you remember, the woman I saw House going for lunch with on Thursday?"

"Right," Lucas said, nodding. The baby was beginning to settle. "What happened to her?"

Cuddy was already heading to the phone with Lucas and Rachel following.

"She was abducted from her home last night," she told him while dialing the hospital, calling her assistant whom was working that Saturday. "Her daughter was there but wasn't aware of it happening."

The P.I. looked surprised. "She has a daughter? How old is the daughter?"

The Dean of Medicine didn't answer him because her newly-hired assistant Lori answered.

"Hi, Lori," Cuddy said to the other woman quickly, foregoing pleasantries. "I just heard on the news that chaplain Chloe LaSalle was abducted last night. Why wasn't I notified immediately? The police had to have called the hospital--."

"Dr. Cuddy," Lori answered. "An attempt was made to contact you last night but you didn't respond to the calls to your home phone and cell phone, or the page you were sent either. I tried again first thing this morning and the same thing occurred."

Cuddy shook her head in denial, "I didn't receive any calls or pages, Lori—either time!"

"I don't know what happened," the assistant answered, "but the calls and pages were made."

"Okay, whatever," the Dean of Medicine said, perplexed. "I'm coming to the hospital right away. Contact P.R. and tell them to hold off on any kind of Press Statement until I get there and look it over."

"Yes, Dr. Cuddy," Lori told her. Cuddy didn't bother saying good-bye before she hung up. Immediately she called Wilson's number. He picked up on the first ring.

"Hello?"

"James, it's Lisa," she said to him.

"You're using my first name again which tells me that you found out about Chloe," Wilson concluded, answering one of Cuddy's questions before she could ask it.

"You _know_?" the Dean of Medicine inquired, surprised. "Did you hear it on the news or in the paper this morning?"

"Neither. I knew last night already. Sara, Chloe's daughter, called me while House and I were on our way to Mayfield. I tried to call you last night but I couldn't get through."

Cuddy frowned, genuinely confused. It didn't make sense—sometimes she turned the ringer off on her home phone when she didn't want to be disturbed by anything non-essential but if that were the case the answering machine would click on and record a message. She always kept her cell phone and pager on and they were always kept fully charged.

"My assistant just told me the same thing," answered the Dean of Medicine. "I have no idea why nothing is coming through. Did LaSalle's daughter—Sara, did you say?—tell you any details?"

Wilson sighed into the phone. "She was…in no shape to go into it all but she did say that she was certain that her mother had been kidnapped because things around the house were in a state that Chloe would never have left them in unless she left in a big hurry."

"Did she see who it was that did it?"

"No, she didn't see it happen. The strange thing is it took place while the cops were parked on the street in front of her house but after her mother went missing Sara went to find them and they were gone."

"Gone?" Cuddy echoed, amazed. "They're supposed to be watching her home twenty-four-seven until the perpetrator is caught—at least, that's what the detectives told me yesterday. Wilson, can you say on the line for a minute? I'm going to go see if my guard is out front my house."

"Sure thing," the oncologist agreed. "I'll do the same thing."

Cuddy put the phone down and turned around. Lucas and Rachel were no longer in the kitchen. He probably took the baby to dress her, she decided. Cuddy made her way to the living room and peered out the window at the street. The police car that had been parked there since she had arrived home from work the night before was gone. She frowned and a shiver ran down her spine. Perhaps the car had just moved outside the visibility from the living room. The Dean of Medicine went to her front door and looked outside. No squad car could be seen. She shut the door and locked it again and then returned to the phone.

"Wilson," she said, "are you still there?"

"Yeah, I'm here." He replied immediately. "The cops are still outside my building."

"Not here," she told him, being to feel a little anxious. She tried to reason to herself and to Wilson at the same time. "There may have been a call they had to respond to."

"Maybe," the oncologist agreed. "Then again…are you alone there with Rachel?"

"No," Cuddy answered, wondering where he was going with this. "Lucas is here. Actually… he's moved in."

There was silence for a moment or two before Wilson spoke. "Oh, I see…well, good, you shouldn't be alone right now, all things considered. Are your doors locked?"

"Yes. Wilson, you're making me nervous!"

"I'm sure there's nothing to be alarmed about," he told her calmly. "It's just wise to take precautions, Lisa."

Cuddy nodded. "Yes, you're right, of course. Does House know about LaSalle?"

"Yeah," Wilson answered. "He was with me when Sara called. He didn't take it…well. He resisted going to Mayfield when he found out. I had to take some drastic measures to get him there and no, I don't want to tell you just what. I haven't told him about Foreman, however. The didn't really come up. I plan on calling Nolan today and telling him. He'll decide whether or not it's information House should hear right now."

Cuddy thought about that. The diagnostician had seemed so fragile the last couple of days, something that chilled her to the bone. It reminded her too much of how he had been before he checked into Mayfield.

"Was he…?" She began, trying to find the right words. "How was he when you left him there?"

"Not good," Wilson answered quietly, his voice sounding very grim. "He was very worked up about Chloe. He loves her, you know. I know it's pretty quick but…I'm convinced of it. If anything happens to her…well, I just hope nothing does."

Cuddy stopped hearing him after he said that House loved LaSalle. Besides it being quick, it bothered her. She couldn't isolate exactly why. It was good news, actually. The diagnostician wouldn't be trying to interfere with her relationship with Lucas and she knew Lucas would be glad to hear that. So why did she feel so…sad?

"Right," she said almost robotically. "Well, look…I'm heading to the hospital right away to deal with the wake of this new development. If you learn of anything new you can contact me there."

"Right. Oh, and Lisa?"

"Yes?" she asked.

"Be careful, okay?" Wilson told her with concern. He knew that they were both potential targets and that being cautious was essential.

"I will," Cuddy assured him. "You, too. Bye."

"Bye." The oncologist hung up first.

Cuddy hung up the phone and as she did her eye fell upon the built-in answering machine display. It was dark. She checked and discovered that it had been turned off. She couldn't understand how that had happened—she never turned it off. It occurred to her to check the ringer and sure enough it too had been shut off.

"What the…?" she muttered and then headed quickly to her bedroom. Along the way she looked into the nursery and saw that no one was in there. The same was true for the bathroom. Her anxiety was quickly becoming fear. She ran to her bedroom, hoping to find her lover and her baby there, but they were not and they weren't in the ensuite either. Now she was definitely afraid, her heart beating fast and hard in her chest. She checked the garage. Lucas' car was gone. He hadn't said anything about having to leave or taking Rachel with him. It wasn't like him to just up and take Rachel somewhere without telling her first and she found herself becoming angry. At least she knew that they were fine and nobody had abducted them from her home, but she was seriously going to take issue with him about it when they came home.

Breathing a little easier but still mystified about the phone and answering machine, Cuddy returned to her bedroom and checked her cell phone, which was on its charger, and her pager. Both had been shut off. She tried to think how that could have happened and concluded that the only way it could have was if Lucas had shut everything off—but why would he? He had never done that before, so why would he do it now? He knew that she intentionally kept her cell phone and pager on in case an emergency occurred that required her immediate attention. Nothing was making any sense any more. It was like she had somehow been sucked into an alternate reality or something. She had so many questions without any answers and it was frustrating the hell out of her. Cuddy would be confronting Lucas about the phones and pager as well.

Not wasting any more time trying to puzzle it out just then, she set about getting ready to go to the hospital.

* * *

For the third time in less than as many days Chloe emerged from the black pit of unconsciousness. While the previous two times were gradual without outside influence this time she was roused by someone shaking her. An unfamiliar male voice was saying her name. There was a hint of a scent in the air and she tried to get her befuddled brain to focus and identify it if she could. After a few more sniffs she had it: Drakkar Noir. It was the same cologne she had smelled coming from the white van. She opened her eyes and realized that she was still alive and she wasn't in the same place she had been before a psychopath had tried to strangle her. The lighting was natural, sun shining through a sheer curtain into a ubiquitous bedroom. She was laying on a double bed and her hands and feet were bound but no longer to a bed frame; her hands were tied together behind her back and her legs were tied together at the ankles. She was no longer gagged in any way. From the spartan décor and neutral colors Chloe figured she was in someone's spare bedroom but she couldn't see anything with a label or a name that could give her any further clues.

Her mouth and throat were bone dry and she had a dull headache; she knew she was dehydrated and needed water badly. She was also very hungry but she knew she could live a lot longer without food than she could without water.

She looked up into a familiar face, that is, a face she had seen before but couldn't put a name to. He was in his late thirties, she guessed, perhaps early forties and had short brown hair and ---- eyes. He was attractive but not handsome and he looked like someone who was wily but not overly intelligent. His face looked honest but he obviously wasn't because if he were she wouldn't still be bound, a prisoner.

Before he could say anything Chloe opened her mouth and tried to scream. No sound other than a small croak and hiss left her throat, and in so doing she began to cough, feeling like she was going to choke. Her throat hurt incredibly badly. In fact, her whole neck pained her greatly. A sense of panic began to grow in her stomach and chest at her inability to make any sound.

"Hey, Chloe, calm down," the man told her. "I think that jerk Tritter broke your voice box—quit trying to talk! It's a good thing I found him trying to kill you and stopped him. It was never part of the deal to kill people. I never wanted to be a part of that."

Chloe looked at him with utter confusion. She had no idea what he was talking about besides the fact that Michael had tried to murder her. Now this guy called him Tritter. Michael Tritter. She burned that name into her mind. Who was _this_ person and how was he connected? What did he mean that it had never been 'the deal to kill people'? For what other reason would Tritter be attacking if he had no intent to kill? She desperately wanted the answer to these questions but she couldn't even ask them. How could she get this…this _idiot_ to understand?

_Dear God, help me to get through to him!_ Chloe prayed desperately. _Help me to get free! I'm so scared and I just don't how much more I take! _She began to shake her head at him hoping that he would catch on.

"I know, Chloe," the man told her, nodding his head. "It's going to be okay. I know you want to talk but you can't and…and I think I've got an idea. Don't go anywhere—I'll be right back!" He bolted out of the room.

Chloe watched him leave, shaking her head incredulously. 'Don't go anywhere?' How could she possibly go anywhere with her hands and feet bound? She struggled against her bonds; they were made of half-inch nylon cord with surprisingly little give at all. She looked around the room for something she could use to saw through the rope. It had to be something sharp, stable and close to the floor because if she threw herself off of the bed she may not be able to get to her feet.

The man ran back into the room. In his hands he carried a white memo board approximately twelve by twelve inches, a rag and a dry erase marker. He sat down on the edge of the bed, setting the items down beside him.

"Okay, look Chloe," he said to her. "I'm going to untie your hands so you can write whatever it is you want to say on this white board but you have to promise me you won't try to pull anything. If you do I'll have to tie them up again. So behave yourself, okay?"

Chloe wasn't promising anything; as far as she was concerned it was war. She considered herself to be a peace-loving person who tried to have empathy and compassion for others, but she wasn't perfect. Nor was she anyone's doormat. Meekness was being quiet, humble and unassuming but in no way did it mean a person was a coward or a fool. It was her life, as well as the lives of her daughter and everyone else that had been targeted or could be targeted in the future, at stake.

She nodded to the man, trying to appear as genuine as she could. It was probably a lie; she wondered if a lie told to preserve lives was such a sin after all.

"Okay, good," the man told her. He rolled her over onto her side long enough to undo the knot in the rope and free her hands. From there Chloe was able to right herself and sit up, leaning against the headboard for support. Her wrists were a bloodied and blistered mess; they burned miserably.

The man returned to his spot which was just out of arms length from her. Watching her cautiously he handed her the white board, rag and pen. Chloe nearly yanked them out of his hands and wrote a single word: **Water!** She held it up for him to see.

"Oh my god, yeah!" The man said as if it hadn't occurred to him before that moment that she would need to drink to stay alive. "Hold on—I'll get you some!" He once again got up and hurried out of the bedroom.

Chloe smiled evilly. Good, she thought with satisfaction. She set to work trying to loosen the knot in the rope binding her ankles together. It was difficult—it was tied very tightly and very well. Her fingers worked as quickly as she could make them. At any moment he could return and catch her in the act and rebind her hands again. She felt the nylon rope starting to slide itself slightly. She continued to work at it, perspiring lightly from the stress rather than any form of exertion. She could hear steps approaching the bedroom. She wrapped and tucked the rope just right so--!

The man came in with a tall glass of water and a straw. Chloe looked at it desperately. As badly as she wanted to escape she knew she wanted—needed—that water as well. He gingerly held it out to her. She took it with a small smile of appreciation and drew on the straw. The cold water hit her parched mouth and then she swallowed it; it hurt terribly to swallow but it was necessary. She had to get her strength up. She continued to gulp down the water without taking a break until the glass was empty.

"Wow," the man said, nodding with approval. "You really _were_ thirsty!" He took the glass from her and set it on the night table.

The chaplain scribbled something else on the board: **Who are you? Where am I?**

He read it and then shook his head at her. "I can't tell you who I am, you know that. I can tell you that you're still in Princeton but that's all."

She erased the board with the rag and then scribbled: **You're working with Michael Tritter?**

"Yes, I am. But you've got to believe me, things have gotten out of hand. I never intended things to go this far."

**What were your intentions and why?**

He read it and then shrugged. "I just wanted to scare the shit out of House. Just give him a warning to back off and leave my girlfriend and I alone."

**What was he doing to bother you and your girlfriend?**

"You mean, he hasn't told you yet?" the man asked her in surprise.

Chloe shook her head no. This was tedious! She wondered if she should just try to escape without getting any more information out of him. The information would be very useful if she managed to get away but she didn't know if it was worth waiting for. That and she was getting extremely frustrated with him. Her original appraisal of him had been accurate except for one thing: not only was he not 'overly intelligent', he was a complete idiot. She knew that she shouldn't be thinking such things about another person but this guy was out to hurt people, especially House—besides, the truth was the truth.

She was now actively looking for her opportunity to act. Chloe erased the board again and then wrote: _**You**_** tell me.**

He looked at her suspiciously for a moment and she swore she could smell sawdust burning.

"Alright," he told her, nodding. "You _should_ know what House is capable of doing. About a year and a half ago, House hired me to investigate his team and his friend Wilson. He wanted dirt on them, and he also wanted to keep track of what Wilson was doing. See, House killed Wilson's girlfriend—it was like an accident but he was still responsible. Wilson couldn't forgive him right away and actually quit his job and told your sweetie that he didn't want anything to do with him. House couldn't accept it and began to scheme how he could get Wilson to come back and forgive him. While I was doing this work for him I met his bo—this gorgeous woman who worked at the hospital. House had the hots for her but was giving mixed signals and nothing was happening so I decided to ask her out myself. She became my girlfriend but House kept interfering, toying with her emotions and manipulating her

"Then last spring he started hallucinating—it had something to do with the fact that he was loading up on the Vicodin pretty good and drinking harder than ever. He had this huge hallucination that he had asked Lise—er, my girlfriend to help him kick the habit and so she went over to his place and in one night she managed to help him detox and in the morning they supposedly slept together. It was all a delusion—it didn't really happen. The next day that loon stands on the mezzanine overlooking the main lobby of the hospital and yells out for everyone to hear that he slept with my girlfriend. Man, was she pissed. I mean she was still pissed off when she told me about it later. When he realized he was losing it Wilson had him committed to a nuthouse where he detoxed, did rehab, yadda yadda. He gets back and starts after my girl again. Didn't back off until he found out she and I were together. I feel bad about the way he found out—I really do—but the guy had it coming, you know what I mean? And even since he's been antagonizing my girlfriend, disobeying her, it's just crap. So, I wanted to send him a message that she was mine and he'd better stop interfering. But I never meant to physically hurt anyone. That was Tritter's game plan."

Chloe stared at him for a minute, processing what he had just stupidly revealed to her in his clumsy way. She didn't know whether or not everything he said was the truth but she knew that some of it was. House's behaviors before rehab, at least as this guy told her, were not unbelievable. The diagnostician had told her himself about his addiction and she knew that a person would do almost anything to continue to feed that addiction and control their environment to ensure that nothing interrupted that. He had also nearly revealed his girlfriend's name and job position a couple of times. He had said that he had met House's 'boh' before recovering and saying 'this gorgeous woman'. Chloe didn't know every employee who worked at Princeton-Plainsboro but 'boh' sounded a lot like he was about to say 'boss'. House's boss was Dr. Cuddy, who just happened to be a very beautiful woman. It fit with some of the gossip other staffers had thrust upon her over the week. She hadn't known that it was Cuddy that had been involved but she had been told that House made a 'big, crazy spectacle of himself' from the mezzanine before he was 'carted away to the loony bin'.

The chaplain also didn't know whether or not House was continuing to harass Cuddy and her boyfriend. It troubled her to think about it, but she wasn't going to know anything for sure until she could ask House personally and she would never get to do that if she didn't escape. So, she wouldn't think about her concerns until she was safe. By the way this guy was telling her so much information without any concern about her revealing it to the authorities later it was obvious that he never intended to give her the opportunity to do so. It was impractical to keep her a prisoner for the long term so that meant he was going to silence her—permanently—once his use for her was done. So he wasn't as different from his partner in crime as he professed to be. Why, then, would he lie to her, trying to convince her of his benevolence, if he was only going to kill her? Was he really _that_ stupid or was it that he really had bought his own baloney?

It didn't matter, Chloe decided. He was dangerous and she had to flee.

**What are you planning on doing with me?** She demanded, showing him the board. She grabbed his gaze with her own and held it, trying to see into the windows of his soul, as it were.

The man scratched his head in thought. Chloe kept watching him, trying to remember if she had ever heard his name mentioned around her and if so, what it was. If she had heard it even once, even if it was in passing, she knew it was filed somewhere in her brain. She just had to figure out how to access it.

"That's a very good question," he told her, nodding slowly. "I obviously can't just let you go after you've seen my face, and I certainly can't keep you tied up forever. I'll have to think it over--."

The man was interrupted by the sound of a baby crying from somewhere else in the house. Chloe could tell by the sound of the cry that the baby wasn't very young—certainly not a new born. If she were to guess she would have said that the baby was somewhere around a year give or take a couple of months. The crying triggered something in her mind and flashes of memory, some visual, some both visual and auditory, filled her consciousness. She saw images of Cuddy holding a baby somewhere in the hospital…The sound of the baby crying and of Cuddy's voice trying to soothe her…_Rachel_…the man's face, smiling, talking with no sound…more images of the baby and then one of the baby with Cuddy and her boyfriend together. He was talking to the baby…Chloe could hear his voice…she saw Cuddy laughing soundlessly…Cuddy was talking. What was she saying?....

_Lucas._

Chloe struggled not to smile at her epiphany. _Thank you, God_, she silently prayed. _Now help me flee!_

Rachel began to settle on her own. Lucas appeared to relax and returned his attention to the chaplain.

She scrawled out one last question on the white board: **More water, please?**

Chloe held it up for him to read, giving him her most innocent, imploring look she could muster.

Lucas smiled and shrugged. "Sure, why not? Do you want any ice in it this time?" He rose and grabbed the glass from the table. The chaplain nodded her head and gave him a small smile.

She watched him leave the room; he left the door ajar and she smiled. The chaplain kicked her feet free of the rope. As quietly as she could she rose from the bed and padded, barefoot, to the window and looked out…and down. She was at least three stories up. Escape through the window wasn't going to work, which meant she had to go out the apartment's front door. Chloe sighed. Why did she always have to do things the hard way? She looked around the room for something large, heavy and hard but not too awkward to swing. Her eyes settled on a table lamp with a base made of bronze and marble standing on the dresser across the room. She hurried over and gingerly picked it up. It definitely met every qualification. Ever so carefully she approached the door. She could hear a tap running from down a long corridor; holding her breath, she peeked with one eye out the door. Across the corridor was another room, its door wide open. She needed the element of surprise, but the moment he entered the bedroom he would see that she was no longer in bed, and, if she was right, he would turn around to leave the bedroom to look for her. If he decided to walk into the bedroom to look, the chances were that even this moron—_Chloe_!—Lucas would suspect she was behind the door.

_Quickly, Chloe!_ She berated herself. Making her decision, Chloe pushed the door open; it hadn't creaked when Lucas had opened it. A temporary wave of relief washed over her when it didn't make any sound. She crept out of the bedroom heading for the open room directly across the corridor. The sound of Lucas walking in her direction spurred her forward and into the other room. She retreated far enough back into the room so that he wouldn't see her as he approached. Her heart was beating hard in her ears. She found herself breathing far too quickly and loudly and forced herself to breathe slower, quieter. When the chaplain saw his shadow approach she took a deep breath and held it.

Lucas could be heard pushing the door to the other bedroom open. She tiptoed to the door and held the lamp up above her head. He was right in front of her. He was cursing. He began to turn around.

The chaplain's mind screamed out to her, _Swing, Chloe—now!_

So, she swung--bringing the heavy lamp down with every ounce of strength in her body enhanced by a rush of adrenalin. For a split-second she could see Lucas' face contort into a mask of surprise and horror. His reflexes were a moment too slow to protect his head with his arms. The full brunt of the marble and bronze crashed into his skull. She could hear the bones crunch from the force of the blow; later she would say that it sounded like someone cracking an egg against the side of a mixing bowl only louder and more ghastly. Where the lamp made contact she could see his skull crush inward and open up; blood and brain tissue oozed out. Lucas landed on the floor with a thud. Chloe released her grip on the lamp and it fell to the floor inches from his head. His body came to rest, and it didn't move again.

Chloe looked into two empty, lifeless eyes staring blindly up at her. She squeezed her eyes shut and looked away, forcing herself not to think about what she had just done. She couldn't allow herself to because the shock and horror of it would paralyze her. She had no idea if there was anyone else in the apartment so she had no time to waste. Barefoot she sprinted down the corridor, her eyes scanning her surroundings, hunting for the exit and for any would be pursuers. She spilled out into the living room. Immediately she saw the door out of there and headed for it—until out of the corner of her eye she saw movement. Her eyes sought it out and spied a playpen with a baby standing, holding onto the frame, watching her.

_Rachel. Helpless. _Chloe couldn't leave her behind. She skidded into the front door, banging it hard with her shoulder and hip. The pain barely registered in her brain and she lunged for the playpen and scooped the baby girl out of it. Clinging to the baby with one arm she spun around and headed for the door. It was locked . She slid the dead bolt open, grabbed the door knob and twisted, pulling at the same time. Out of the corner of her eye she someone emerge from the direction of the kitchen into the living room. Chloe swung the door open and bolted through it, grabbing Rachel with both arms now. She ran down the outer corridor in the direction of the stairwell at the extreme far end. She grabbed the fire door, yanked it open, and sped into the stairwell as the sound of an explosion split the air; the window in the fire door suddenly shattered and shards of glass flew in the air, some of them landing on Chloe and Rachel.

Chloe raced full-speed down the six flights of stairs, clinging to the baby for dear life. She couldn't remember her feet touching the stairs the entire way down but of course they had to have. She could hear her pursuer behind her. A second later she heard another gunshot and the wooden rail inches from her hand exploded, shards and splinters of wood flying everywhere. That was close, she thought and a fresh shot of adrenalin flooded her system. She picked up her pace. She could hear a male voice shouting down at her but couldn't make out what was said. Another shot was fired, hitting the wall above her head.

Three, Chloe's mind counted. She saw the building exit ahead and nearly stumbled at the bottom but managed to catch herself first. She threw Rachel and her out of the door and into the open air. Chloe didn't know where she was going or how she was going to evade her pursuer without getting shot but she _did_ know that a moving target was harder to hit. Purposefully she began to zigzag a little as she sprinted to the main drag just fifty feet or so ahead. The sun was close to the apex of its path across the sky, telling Chloe that it was midday, and the heavy traffic on the street ahead testified to that. There was another earsplitting explosion and she had no idea where the bullet ended up but she was glad it wasn't inside her. _Four_. Rachel was crying, had been crying since they left the apartment, but Chloe paid no attention. Safety was the priority—but how and where?

Chloe tried to scream to no avail. She reached the street and stopped short of jumping right into the flow of traffic. When there was a break in the nearest lane she jumped out and began to wave frantically at the car heading towards her half a block away.

There was another explosion followed by a second one a half-second later. Chloe instantly felt a painless force slam into her left side about four inches below her rib cage, followed by a feeling of breathlessness. She began to fall to the pavement and somehow forced herself to hit the ground first, taking the full impact; Rachel landed on top her, a little jolted but otherwise unscathed. The approaching car stopped less than a yard from her body. She could hear a lot of yelling and the screeching of tires over top the screams of the baby. The riders in the car jumped out and raced towards her. There were two of them but she couldn't see anything but their feet. She felt one of them lift Rachel out of her arms while the other person knelt next to her, staring into her face. It was a young man, but Chloe didn't attend to anything else about him. She was gasping for air; it felt like someone had knocked the wind out of her and she was desperately trying to re-inflate her lungs.

The young man's lips were moving but Chloe couldn't hear anything he was saying. He pulled out a cell phone and began to speak into it while another person, a woman, knelt beside him and began to press a fleece hoodie against her side. Pain blossomed upon contact and Chloe screamed voicelessly, releasing a strangled hiss instead. She reached over and shoved the hooie away. It was already stained crimson and when Chloe looked at her hands they were covered in red as well.

_Blood_, the chaplain thought. _My blood_.

She turned her head back in the direction from which she had been running. Lying on the dead grass lawn was the body of a man with salt and pepper hair and bushy eyebrows over hooded eyes; over him stood a traffic cop speaking into a radio. In the other hand he held his service firearm.

Sound suddenly returned and Chloe looked back at the man and woman at her side. The hoodie was back against her side.

"I'm a paramedic," the man said to her. "Just hold on. An ambulance is on its way. Can you hear me?"

Chloe nodded. She felt herself fading away again, and she struggled with all she had just to keep her eyes open. She was afraid that if she blacked out again, she wouldn't wake up again on earth. Staying conscious was a losing battle and Chloe just didn't have the strength to fight.

_Jesus, help me_. That was her last thought before the lights went out.


	27. Chapter 27

**Reconciliations: A House M.D. Story**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its concept, current story line and characters past and current are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

A/N: Things will be winding up soon. Please review!

Songs that helped inspire this chapter include: "A Hazy Shade of Winter" by The Bangles and "I'm Sorry" by Brenda Lee.

**Chapter Twenty-Seven**

The sky looked like impending snow. It was overcast and the blanket that blocked most of the sun was heavy and dark, but not thunderstorm dark. A soft wind was blowing the branches of the leafless deciduous trees that spotted the lawn of the psychiatric facility; the odd leaf that had not been machine raked and picked up tumbled clumsily across the short, tan-colored grass. He suspected that the air outside had the nip and scent of snow, a slightly electric tingle against the skin. He wasn't particularly fond of snow but the ambiance of an impending storm of the white stuff was one of the few things in life that he genuinely looked forward to. If the ambiance could come and go without the snow actually falling, making sidewalks treacherous with ice, it would be perfect.

Inside, looking out the window, the ambiance didn't exist and never would. The atmosphere inside was stale and recycled, heavy with the sharp smell of antibacterial cleaner, body odor, flatulence, breakfast. The only electricity around was static electricity that gave him a nasty shock every time he touched a doorknob. There was no wind and the temperature was a constant seventy degrees year-round except when the air conditioning broke down in the summer or the furnace in the winter. There were no leaves to flutter across the floor but if you looked carefully you could see dust bunnies under the locked piano.

Blue eyes preferred the view outside the shatter-proof glass because with the ambiance of impending snow was the knowledge that out there was freedom. Out there was the illusion of control over one's own existence and for him illusion—and delusion—mixed with a dash of denial and stirred up by the entropy of human existence made an ambrosia that tasted sweet at first but the aftertaste was often bitter and it rarely ever quenched one's thirst. Inside was order, control and safety stirred into tepid water and seasoned with a dash of antipsychotics and bland hope. It held the promise of sweetness and of satisfying one's thirst but far too many who drank it were too far gone to benefit from it anymore.

"Greg."

House turned his head away from the window, where he had been sitting for nearly an hour staring at Outside. Standing behind him was Dr. Nolan and beyond him the boring recreation room. He looked up at the psychiatrist with weary, bloodshot eyes; dark circles of insomnia curved under them.

"What?" he asked stoically.

Nolan's face and body language spoke of the seriousness of his mood. There was no anger in his dark eyes. Instead there was concern and something akin to sadness.

"Nurse Dreger said that you didn't eat anything at breakfast and that you've been staring out that window for an hour without moving," the chief Attending psychiatrist told him. "Dr. Whalen told me that in Insight Group this morning you said nothing the whole time and looked 'blank' to him."

House shrugged broad shoulders and said, "They must have been concerned if they called you in on a Saturday because of it."

"I've told you before," Nolan said, smiling slightly, "I don't work banker's hours. I'm here when I'm needed."

"I don't need you," House told him with a sigh. There was none of the usual bite in his voice. "I'm not hungry and I don't feel like playing 'Go Fish' with Rain Man and The Mad Hatter over there." He nodded at the two patients sitting at a table playing cards. "I'm not disrupting anything. What's the problem?"

"Perhaps we should discuss this in the privacy of my office," the psychiatrist told him softly. The tone of his voice left no room for discussion.

House knew he could go willingly or be taken there by two burly orderlies. Ordinarily he would have resisted just to be a pain in the ass but his heart wasn't in it. He nodded and rose from his chair, following his therapist to his office.

House was more than familiar with Nolan's office. He came there every other week for therapy sessions. He went to the familiar leather chair that faced another seat that was the psychiatrist's. Both men took their traditional places. Nolan sat with the ankle of his right foot resting on the left knee and rested back comfortably against the back. House sat looking like he was slumped casually in his seat as he always did—to start at least—but the truth was he was anything but relaxed.

"I was thinking that today we could discuss the events of yesterday," Nolan told him in his deep, smooth voice. "But first, I want you to tell me how you've been feeling this morning."

House shook his head, gazing somewhere in the center of the space between the psychiatrist and him. "I'm not feeling anything."

"At all?"

"No," the diagnostician answered. "I should be angry, afraid, I don't know. I feel numb and I like it this way."

"It's easier to feel nothing because then you don't have to engage with the world around you," Nolan agreed. "The Vicodin had the same effect, didn't it?"

"Yes, it did," House acknowledged. He was willing to agree with just about anything if it meant he could sit in a corner somewhere or curl up in his bed and pretend that nothing was real and nothing could touch him.

"How did that work for you?" Nolan asked, his dark eyes gazing calmly at the diagnostician, sizing him up as he always did.

"You know the answer so why ask the question?"

"Because," the psychiatrist told him, "it's important that you say it and remember what your life was like when you lived in denial, trying to feel numb."

House stared at him for a moment. He didn't want to be doing this right now. He didn't want to have to admit that his life had been nothing but a cess pool of misery in his Vicodin days. If he did that, then he would have to concede that not feeling numb was the better way which would then come to the examination of the emotions that simmered just under the surface that he simply couldn't face.

"No," the diagnostician said quietly in refusal. "I'm not doing this today."

Silence hung around them as the therapist considered his patient's answer. "Why not, Greg?" he asked simply.

Sighing, House rubbed his face with his hand. _Because I'll burst into tears,_ he thought, _and I'm simply not going to do that in front of you today, that's why not._

"I'm just not."

Nolan caught his patient's gaze and held it. "You know how it works. We sit here until you answer my questions. I have no other obligations or plans for today, so I can wait as long as you can. It's only by talking about how you feel and what is going on with you that healing can take place. Don't you want to get better sooner rather than later?"

"I want to spend the rest of my life in here," was the sarcastic reply, his voice low and deep. "I like sleeping in the same room as a schizophrenic who believes that I'm his lover Sergio. Keeping one eye open while I sleep to make sure he doesn't crawl into bed with me overnight is exhilarating."

"If you feel unsafe with your roommate or any other patient you need to tell your nurse," the psychiatrist informed him. "We take such information very seriously. However, I think that you are trying to deflect. Yesterday was traumatic for you. You were visibly angry with James. Tell me about that."

House exhaled loudly, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He rubbed his aching thigh. Nolan was determined and wouldn't be distracted. The diagnostician knew that he had to talk but he hated the pain talking brought up. He hated the way he reacted to emotional pain now that he was sober. The vulnerability made him physically sick and he wanted to do was find a closet to hide in.

"I guess I was angry," House admitted, looking away from his therapist. "It was a cheap trick to drug me. I'm fine with it now."

"You're no longer angry?" the psychiatrist asked to clarify.

House avoided the emotion. "I did it to him at the medical convention. It was simple pay-back."

"But are you angry?" Nolan persisted. His eyes seemed to bore right through his patient, making him feel like the therapist could look right into his soul. It was the same feeling he got when Chloe looked at him, only in her eyes he felt safe. _Chloe_….

Noticing the pained expression in House's eyes, Nolan shifted gears. "Because it would be okay to feel angry. Drugging you was a breach of the trust you placed in James."

Not knowing where the idea came from or why he said it allowed, the patient said, "I wonder if Wilson did it to help me or…himself."

His therapist frowned in confusion. "What do you mean by that, Greg?"

Rubbing his face tiredly again, House shrugged; he hadn't been joking about his roommate keeping him awake most of the night. "Wilson says it's because he was concerned about me. I'm just not so certain."

"Why is that?"

"Wilson has feelings for Chloe," was the reply. "He told me so."

Nolan folded his hands and raised them to his lips contemplatively. He was quite for a few moments. "James told you that he's attracted to Chloe?"

House sighed. "He coined a nickname for her," he answered. "He calls her The Goddess."

"The Goddess?" Nolan echoed, an amused smile pulling at his mouth.

"You'd understand if you saw her," House said nodding and allowing a small smile to cross his lips before hiding it again. "He met her before I did. It was just in passing, but when I stopped by his office later he was…I cringe at using the word, but the best description was that he was twitterpated."

"I see," the psychiatrist said, not able to repress a smile anymore. "I believe that is a very descriptive word to use."

"If he had been a rabbit he would have been thumping all morning. I told him to ask her to lunch."

"Was that before you met her?"

"Yes. I met her later that morning. Our first meeting was interesting. Imagine two stubborn people, each with an agenda, squaring off. Actually, I didn't realize I was interested in her for more than her body until she hit me."

"She hit you?" Nolan asked in amazement. "Why would she do that?"

"Because I was being an ass," House admitted, not trying to repress his smile anymore. "I was ignoring her with the hope she'd give up and go away. She hit me with the magazine I was reading to get my attention. She informed me that she wouldn't be disregarded or bullied by me and demanded I respect her. She got this…fire…in her eyes that was incredibly…." House let his voice trail off, shaking his head. What he was going to say sounded too mushy and pathetic.

Of course, Nolan wouldn't let it go. "'That was incredibly' what?"

House felt ridiculous, shifted uncomfortably in his seat again. He sighed. "Incredibly breathtaking."

"Why were you reluctant to say that?" the psychiatrist asked him.

"It sounds ridiculous," was his answer. "Like something written in a romance novel."

"Romance embarrasses you?" Nolan asked.

"Do I look like Fabio to you?" House deflected. "I'm just not romantic."

"I see. So did James take your advice and ask her out?"

The diagnostician shook his head. "No, not right away. He was feeling guilty about being attracted to someone who wasn't his dead girlfriend. I told him to start living again. He put it off all morning and then when he did get the nerve to ask her, she was already busy for lunch."

"Why didn't he ask her to have lunch with her another time, do you think?" Nolan asked.

"I think he did."

Nolan looked appraisingly at him. "You look like you are feeling shame or guilt. Are you?"

House paused a beat and then nodded once. "Yes."

"Why?" he was asked.

"Chloe was busy for lunch because she was having it with me," the patient confessed. "I had another encounter with her later that morning. She had—has—this effect on me where I forget about everything else but her when she looks at me. I _needed_ to meet with her again that day. I knew that it wouldn't go well with Wilson but it just didn't seem to register until after." House sighed, shaking his head. "I broke the Code and then I didn't have the _huevos _to tell him_._ In fact I didn't tell him until after Chase died. I knew he'd be pissed. He was."

Nolan was quiet a moment. "Let's go back to the statement you made earlier about your uncertainty whether Wilson drugged you to get you here for your well being or for his. You said that Wilson was attracted to Chloe."

"Twitterpated," House reminded him, embarrassed by the word again.

"Twitterpated," Nolan corrected himself with a nod. "Why do you suspect Wilson's motivation was more for his own benefit than yours? Are you saying that you believe he did what he did because of jealousy or revenge?"

"Both," the diagnostician admitted, ashamed for even thinking how he did about his best friend. "I can't help but wonder if he wants me here so badly because he wants me out of the way so he can move in on Chloe. What better way to seek revenge than to steal the woman I love while I'm confined in a mental institution?"

"How convinced are you that you theory is accurate?" the psychiatrist asked, frowning.

"About twenty per cent. I believe he truly is concerned about my well being. That's Wilson. He's not happy unless he's concerned about other people. It gives him a sense of fulfillment and purpose to care for others—it's his drug of choice."

"So Wilson is concerned about you simply because you are in need, just as he would be his patients or a sick puppy?"

House had to chuckle at that question. "I think I rank lower than the sick puppy, but _just_. Actually, I'd prefer he'd care less for me than he does."

"Why's that?" Nolan asked.

"Because it's too easy to use him when he cares," the diagnostician admitted with a hint of regret.

"So you believe you use him unfairly?" the psychiatrist asked him, raising an eyebrow.

"Is the sun hot?" the patient replied sardonically. "Is Nurse Getty fat? Does my roommate masturbate all night long?"

Nolan ignored the comment about a member of the hospital staff and a patient's sexual practices for the time being. "Do you think Wilson believes he's being used?"

"Yes," House answered immediately. "He bitches about it sometimes…but he keeps coming back for more. He's an idiot. I think it's a compulsion for him. He craves to be needed, to care for others, for me, so he does so, allowing me to use him. He gets the rush from my 'neediness' and being able to tend to it, but he knows he's being used, resents it. He knows that the more he does it, the worse he's going to be used but he just can't stop. He needs to experience that rush more than he needs to maintain his self-respect, more than anything, really. So he's stuck in a vicious cycle that he's powerless to escape and I'm enough of a bastard to abuse that."

"Like being addicted to Vicodin then," Nolan commented softly.

"Exactly," House said, nodding. "He's an addict and I'm his pusher."

The psychiatrist nodded. "That's an interesting observation. You regret being his pusher but you keep doing it. Why?"

"Pshh," House scoffed. "Why wouldn't I? I benefit from it. I'm rewarded for doing it, even though I know that I'm only enabling him. He seems to need it so much and I have no reason to deny him, so in a way I feel like I'm helping him. It's win-win."

"Or lose-lose," Nolan pointed out calmly, "depending upon how you look at it. Co-dependency is never of benefit to either party, despite the apparent benefits. Those are temporary and illusory."

House forced himself to meet Nolan's eyes. It wasn't easy for him to admit, "Perhaps he's seeking revenge for my contribution to his habit."

"Or perhaps you were seeking revenge for his. Perhaps asking Chloe out after you knew that James was planning on doing so was your way of punishing him for trusting and needing you so much. Is that possible?"

The diagnostician didn't comment, diverting his eyes again. He didn't want to consider that question. He didn't want to know the answer, even though he knew that sub-consciously he did.

"Let's go back to yesterday afternoon," Nolan said again, refocusing the conversation again. "Do you remember the conversation you had with James after you woke up?"

"Yes," House answered quizzically. Of course he did, it had only occurred yesterday. He was getting older, sure, but nothing was wrong with his memory yet.

"Do you recall what he told you when you said that your security didn't matter?"

The diagnostician did remember. Wilson had been very clear about what his feelings were on the subject. The problem was he didn't know whether or not it had been the truth and if it had been then he rejected it because he wasn't worth the oncologist's depth of concern for him.

"He said that he didn't know what he would do if anything happened to me," House said sotto voce. "Later he said that if I killed myself, he would too."

"Why do you think he said that?" Nolan pressed.

House rolled his eyes. This was heading in a direction he didn't want to go.

"Because he's an idiot," was the reply.

Nolan shook he head. "We already established that he isn't. Come on, Greg. You know this. We've talked several times about this."

"Because he cares about me," House admitted.

"I believe he said that he _loves_ you," the psychiatrist reminded him pointedly. "Do you believe that he was lying to you about that?"

"No," House sighed, shaking his head. "And if he loves me, he wouldn't betray me by sticking me in here to take Chloe from me."

His therapist nodded slowly, "Sounds like a logical conclusion to me. I don't entirely agree with the lyricist but as the song says, 'You're nobody 'til somebody loves you' .1 We've already established that there are at least two people who love you and think your life is important—James, and Chloe. The logical progression would be to accept that you are in fact loveable and important. That makes the feelings you have important. That's why we talk about them here. If you try to repress them, if you choose to deny your feelings you'll only continue to live in misery."

House looked up at his therapist again. He mulled over what had been said.

"This morning," the diagnostician said, "to answer your original question, I feel angry for being here…having to be here…instead of out there for Chloe… if… she is freed. I'm angry at the way I disregard Wilson's feelings for me. I'm afraid that I'll never see Chloe alive again and that Wilson will give up on me or he'll be targeted and killed and I'll lose him too. I'm afraid of ending up alone and what will become of me then. Some days, I'm just afraid to be alive, period. I'm afraid that just the fact I breathe it will, in some way, hurt someone else. I'm afraid that everyone I know will see this and I'll become the untouchable…even more so than I already am." At that point he began to cry, the very thing he had wanted to avoid. "I'm afraid that I will never be stable enough to live on the outside. I'm sad that I'll never be normal, ever."

Nolan handed his patient a box of tissues. House took a couple and used them to wipe his eyes, blow his nose.

Once he had calmed again Nolan told him, "All of those feelings are valid, Greg. You will be stable…you already are compared to where you were last spring. As for being normal, I'm afraid that you will never be that. You are extraordinarily _special_. I want for you to cherish that fact. I want you--."

The psychiatrist was interrupted by the phone; his assistant was off for the weekend so he had to answer it himself. After a moment of hesitation he picked up. "Hello, this is Dr. Nolan?"

House watched the therapist as he listened to the person on the other end of the line. The African-American doctor nodded and said yes a couple of time, glancing in the diagnostician's direction.

"I'm going to speakerphone," Nolan said into the phone. House perked up in his chair. If the psychiatrist was putting his conversation on speakerphone for House to hear as well it meant only one thing: The caller was Wilson with news. "Alright, the speakerphone is on…go ahead."

"House, it's Wilson. How are you doing?"

"Peachy," the diagnostician answered sarcastically. "I'm having an affair with my roommate. I'm changing my name to Sergio and we're running off to Portugal together."

"Uh huh," Wilson responded uncertainly. "Darryl, whatever drugs you have him on, I think you should lower the dosage. Or increase it."

The psychiatrist smiled in amusement. "I'll take that under advisement."

"I have a couple of developments I'm calling to tell you about," the oncologist said over the speaker. "Unfortunately there's still no word on Chloe."

House felt his heart fall into his stomach. Nothing else mattered as much as that to him.

"So what are they?" the diagnostician asked half-heartedly.

"First," Wilson said, "The good news is CPS has approved me to take care of Sara until Chloe is found. A worker is bringing her by in about half-an-hour."

House was relieved to hear that, at least. "What's the bad news?" He demanded.

He heard Wilson sigh and then clear his throat. "It's actually something that happened yesterday before lunch. I haven't told you before now because I wanted to make certain it was safe to do so."

"Just get to it!" the diagnostician ordered impatiently.

"It's Foreman. Yesterday he was working in the Clinic when he collapsed and nearly died from cyanide poisoning. That page I received in my office was from Cuddy. While you had lunch with Chloe I hurried down to the ER."

House closed his eyes. "Damn it!" he cursed, his voice just above a whisper. More loudly he asked, "How did it happen?" Despite what most believed, House didn't hate the neurologist; he didn't like him, but he didn't hate him and he didn't want this to happen to him. He was more pissed over having been kept from knowing what had happened to Foreman than anything else.

"The police haven't said anything officially, but they hinted that someone, likely in the waiting room, slipped it into his cup of coffee when he set it down to help a waiting patient who had a seizure. They know for certain that the coffee in the urn he got it from was not contaminated so it was tainted somewhere between the cafeteria and the Clinic examining room he had taken it into after aiding the woman with the seizure. One more thing: that woman was taken to the ER to be checked out. She disappeared from a treatment bay unnoticed before she was examined by the ER doc."

"A diversion," the diagnostician concluded out loud. "Do the police have any suspects?"

"I don't know," Wilson answered. "There's been nothing forthcoming from the police about that—or anything else for that matter."

House pinched the bridge of his nose; his tension headache was back. His brain was already at work trying to piece together what he already knew about the previous attacks and this one with Foreman. There had to be a clue somewhere that not only linked all of the incidents but that also pointed a finger in the direction of the perpetrator. What was it?

"What's Foreman's prognosis?" he asked the oncologist.

"He's going to survive," Wilson said, "but he's comatose and his reflex reactions were poor as of yesterday. Until his level of consciousness improves there's no way to even begin to know if there is any permanent brain damage and to what extent it might be."

The diagnostician was pensive. "Unfortunately," he commented. "Cyanide is easily obtained if you know where to go. Whoever it was that put it in his coffee could have obtained it from the hospital lab, for that matter. One thing is for certain…the perpetrator is someone close enough to our everyday lives to know the details of our scheduling and activities in and about the hospital, someone who is able to easily camouflage him or herself in the hospital environment and has reason to want to me to know that it is all occurring because of me. It's personal."

"Someone you know," Wilson added thoughtfully. "Someone seeking revenge. Someone not satisfied with merely killing you, but who wants you to suffer emotionally."

House nodded to himself. "It's not necessarily medically motivated. Not too many people around the hospital know that Chloe is important to me, and she isn't a physician. It's someone close enough to know that I care for her or at least to suspect it."

"God, House," Wilson exclaimed, "It could be someone in or connected to someone in your immediate sphere of influence!"

Nolan, who had been listening in silent fascination, now spoke up. "Was there anyone in particular who was targeted who suffered the least personal injury? Revenge is inherently personal in nature. If the person responsible is one of the people who've been offended or is close to someone offended they would most likely do something relatively harmless to him or her that would count them among the victims and divert suspicion."

House's blue eyes suddenly widened and became alive as his mind had an epiphany. A half-smile crossed his lips. "Cuddy. The only thing done to her was that her car was vandalized. She didn't suffer any kind of harm to her person, whereas the rest of us did."

"House, that's ridiculous!" Wilson protested over the line. The diagnostician could picture him standing with his hands on his hips shaking his head. "Cuddy and you have had a falling out but there is no way that she's even capable of planning or executing physical harm to anyone, and especially not you!"

"I know," House assured his best friend. "It could be someone _close_ to a victim, remember? Who's close enough to Cuddy to want seek revenge upon me but not want to cause physical harm to her?"

The silence that came over the speaker was most certainly Wilson coming to the realization of the truth and unable to verbalize his horror; the oncologist was far too intelligent to miss it now.

"Lucas," Wilson whispered and then said it more loudly. "Lucas! House, Lucas has the motive and the opportunity. Through Cuddy he could get all of the information about hospital activity and the gossip which could explain the attack on and the kidnapping of Chloe! Any other information—like Taub's route to work every day—he could obtain easily as a private detective! There's only one problem with that."

"He couldn't be in two places at the same time as he would have had to have been to simultaneously attack Thirteen in my office and Chloe and me in the restaurant parking lot," House said, reading his friend's thoughts. "We already know that there is more than one person involved in the execution of the crimes, but what we didn't know was who had the motive. Now I think we know."

Wilson cursed softly under his breath. "If you're right, this is going to kill Cuddy. If she knew it was Lucas there is _no way_ she would keep it a secret. She's a better person than that."

House knew that too. His satisfaction at narrowing the clues down to a suspect—Lucas Douglas—was dampened by the knowledge that Cuddy would be devastated to find out that it was her boyfriend that was responsible for the attacks on members of her staff and friends. For that reason only did House hope he was wrong…but he knew that he wasn't. Someone she knew would have to be the one to tell her—he didn't want the news to come from some cop she didn't know and who didn't give a damn about her.

"You need to contact the police with our suspicion," the diagnostician told his friend somberly. "If we are right…and we are…then one of us has to break it to her before the police do." A thought occurred to him. "Wilson, does anyone other the three of us know that Sara is going to be staying with you?"

There was a pause and then Wilson groaned. "I talked with Cuddy this morning. She called me to tell me about Chloe's abduction—apparently in was on the TV news this morning—and I mentioned that Sara was going to be staying with me. Damn it! How incredibly stupid could I be!"

"You had no idea when she called that it was unsafe to tell her," House told him. "It's not your fault. However we need to assume Lucas now knows that."

"I'll…I'll tell the police when I tell them about our suspicion that Lucas is the mastermind," Wilson decided. "They'll know what to do to keep both Sara and me safe, and now I know who to keep an eye out for."

"Good!" House agreed, wishing he felt as confident as he was trying to sound for his friend's benefit. "Good idea. Damn! I wish I was _there_!"

"If you were here the only difference would be that we'd be discussing this face to face instead of over the phone," Wilson told him. "As far as telling Cuddy is concerned, I think hearing the truth would better come from me than you—she would accuse you of lying to her and accusing Lucas out of jealousy or spite. Hell, she might even accuse me of telling her for you for the same reasons but if she's going to be receptive to it all, it will be from me."

Nolan spoke up again. "I would advise you not to say anything to her of your suspicions until the police concur with you for two reasons. One: if you're wrong and you jump the gun she will only resent you for it. Two: If she knows before Lucas is apprehended and he senses that to be the case she could find herself in extreme danger. If he is capable of killing another human being then his loyalty to Dr. Cuddy will only last until being so will lead to his capture. At that point his desperation to avoid capture will override any need he feels to protect her from the harm he has perpetrated on the rest."

"You're right," House agreed with the psychiatrist nodding. "She can't know until Lucas is behind bars where he can't hurt her, or anyone else for that matter. I'm afraid it's all up to you right now, Wilson."

Wilson didn't reply and House knew that the magnitude of the responsibility he carried was weighing very heavily on the younger man. He also knew that if anyone could bear that load, it was him. Wilson was a worrier—but beneath that he had a quiet strength that the oncologist himself didn't believe in. The diagnostician knew it was so because anyone who could endure the things his friend has had to just being associated him could endure just about anything. That was one of the traits House admired most about him.

"Wilson? Are you there?" House asked.

"Yeah," came the weak reply. "I'm here. I'll do what has to be done."

_You always do_, the diagnostician said under his breath. Sometimes the oncologist struggled with that, but he always came through when it mattered the most. Over the phone House could hear the doorbell at the apartment chime.

"That's probably Sara," Wilson told House and Nolan. "I gotta go. I'll talk to you later."

"Later," House acknowledged, trying to sound as casual as he could.

"Good-bye, James," Nolan added and then hung up.

House looked up at the psychiatrist with imploring blue eyes. "I _need_ to be there more than I do here right now."

Nolan met his gaze with somber, unreadable eyes. After a moment he picked up his phone and dialed an internal number. "Yes, this is Nolan. I'm granting a temporary off-facility pass for Gregory House. Oh, and I need you to clear my schedule until Monday with the possibility that I may need to extend that under short notice. Yes, I'll hold."

House nodded his silent thanks to his therapist and smiled appreciatively. Nolan nodded in acknowledgement.

With a bang two EMTs pushed the stretcher through the swinging ER doors and quickly inside PPTH where they were immediately met by the on-duty ER doctor and her team of nurses whom directed it to the assigned trauma bay.

"What have you got?" Dr. Yurko demanded as she ran alongside the gurney.

"Unidentified female gunshot victim, thirty to forty-five years of age. Unconscious when we arrived on the scene. Shot on her left side abdominally. No apparent exit wound. Bled out. BP ninety-two over fifty and dropping. Bradycardic. Given two units salty in transit. There's another bus on its way with a female child approximately 12 months of age who was found with the woman."

The EMTs fell back as the ER staffers took charge of the patient and set to work.

"Jeez," Yurko commented, quickly taking a look at the deep purplish-black bruising around the patient's neck and the bruising and bloodied abrasions around her hands and feet as a nurse set to work cutting the clothing off of her. "Getting shot wasn't the only thing she experienced. Looks like she was tied up and an attempt to strangle her was made. When the cops get here bring them back. I want to know what the hell happened to her. In the meantime lets secure an air way."

"Wait," one of the staffers said quickly studying the patient's face carefully, "I think I know who this is! She works here but I don't know her name!"

Another nurse scanned her face as she worked and nodded. "She's that new chaplain. I heard her introducing herself to some of the staff the other day. Her name starts with a K or a C…Carrie? Carly…?

"Chloe!" the first staffer said suddenly. "I'm certain of it!"

"Let's tell the unit clerk and let her figure it out from there!" Yurko told them, ending the speculation. They had more important things to focus on. "I need two units plasma and abdominal x-ray and get a hold of the Trauma OR and tell them they've got a customer coming their way!"

James Wilson shut the front door after the CPS worker left and turned to face the sullen thirteen-year-old sitting in the living room quietly. He rejoined her there, standing at the end of the sofa she sat on. Sara LaSalle looked sick. She was pale and her blood-shot eyes squinted with the headache she undoubtedly had from imbibing the night before. Her suitcase sat on the floor between her feet. _Yup_, Wilson mused as he watched her_, hangovers suck_. He'd had more than his share of them to know.

"Well," Wilson said to break the uncomfortable silence, "Why don't I show you to the room you'll be using while you're here? You can settle in, take a nap or whatever."

Sara shrugged and rose to her feet, picking up her suitcase. Wilson led her to the small study that had been converted into a bedroom for House. The oncologist had cleaned it up and changed the bedding for her. It actually _looked_ like a bedroom, quite unlike it had looked the way the diagnostician had left it; one could actually see the floor now.

Sara moved to the bed and set her suitcase on it, looking around. "Whose room is this usually?" she asked with an astute eye.

"Dr. House's," Wilson told her. When she gave him a curious look he added quickly. "He's staying with me for a while."

"Isn't he going to need his room?" the girl asked him.

"He's out of town for a while so it's all yours," Wilson assured her with a smile. "He doesn't use the bottom drawers in the dresser by the window so feel free to use them while you're here. I also made some room in the closet for you. I have one warning…try not to disturb his stuff in the closet. He's kind of funny when it comes to change and people touching his stuff--especially his guitars."

Sara smirked and nodded. "No problem. I hate it when my mom rearranges stuff in my room. She calls it chaos but I have to remind her that it's an organized chaos."

"That sounds eerily familiar to what House told me once," Wilson responded. "I'll show you where the bathroom is now. There's only one, I'm afraid, but there's a lock on the door for privacy when you're using it. Feel free to use the tub and shower and anything else in there except--."

"Dr. House's stuff," the thirteen-year-old finished for him, nodding. "Don't worry. You'll have to show me where the cleaning supplies are, though."

Wilson smiled, in spite of himself. Her request was music to his ears. House had been staying with him for three months since his first release from Mayfield and the oncologist didn't think his roommate even knew where the cleaning supplies were kept and he had shown no interest in finding out.

"We're going to get along just fine," Wilson told her and then showed her the kitchen, where everything could be found and how the appliances worked.

"Wow," Sara said when he showed her the cookware drawer. "I like your pots! Do they distribute the heat evenly?"

The oncologist looked at her in surprise and nodded. "Yes. You know how to cook?"

"A little," she answered. "My mom's been teaching me. I like learning how to make new things. I got an A in my culinary unit in Home-Economics. But don't worry, Dr. Wilson—if you don't want me to touch your stuff--."

"No, no!" Wilson assured her quickly. "Maybe you can help me make dinner tonight—show me some of the skills that earned you that A."

"Okay," Sara agreed with a weak little smile and a shrug. "Is it okay if I go unpack now, and maybe take a nap?"

"Absolutely! Do you need anything…like some aspirin perhaps?"

The girl smiled sheepishly at him. "Do you have something non-steroidal? I'm allergic to aspirin."

"I think I have some Tylenol on hand," Wilson told her. "What happens when you take aspirin? Hives, itching…?"

"My throat and eyes swell shut and I can't breathe," Sara told him matter-of-factly. "My Family doctor in Canada called it analax—no, that's not right—."

"Anaphylactic shock," the oncologist corrected her. "I'm familiar with it."

Sara blushed. "Oh yeah. You're a doctor so you would know—guess I sound kind of stupid."

"Not at all," Wilson assured her. "Any other allergies I should know about?"

"Bee stings," the teen told him. "Same thing—oh, yeah, I have an Epi-pen in my bag that I have to put in your refrigerator right away, if that's okay."

"That's a very good idea," the oncologist told her. "Why don't you go grab that and I'll get that Tylenol for you."

Sara did so, bringing the tube holding the pen-like syringe loaded with epinephrine to the kitchen where Wilson was waiting for her with a glass of water and Extra-Strength Tylenol. They swapped items and Sara downed the tablet without the water. Wilson watched her, shaking his head. She took it just the way House did. It was eerie alright. He put the Epi-pen in the fridge.

"Well, I'll go unpack now," she told him awkwardly and then headed for her room. Wilson watched her go and smiled. It was like having a domesticated House around, only shorter and less grumpy. _This_ _is definitely going to be interesting_, he decided, _but in a good way._

Lisa Cuddy made her way quickly to the Emergency Room. She had been paged there by the unit clerk as a 9-1-1. When she arrived the Dean of Medicine went straight to the nursing station where the clerk sat, filling out forms by hand.

"I was paged?" Cuddy said, getting his attention. The balding man looked up suddenly and stood up.

"Dr. Cuddy, we had a patient brought in as a Jane Doe but two staffers identified her as an employee of the hospital."

The Dean of Medicine shook her head. "Who?"

The clerk handed the doctor a file. The name on it was LaSalle, Dr. Chloe. Cuddy's heart stopped in her chest. "Notify the police immediately! She was abducted yesterday and the police are looking for her! Which bay?"

"Six," the clerk told her without looking as he picked up the phone and began to dial. "There's a couple of cops back there with a baby that was brought in from the same incident as LaSalle."

Her heels clicking on the tiled floor quickly, Cuddy hurried to the said trauma bay to find the team of staffers pushing Chloe out towards the emergency elevator. She stopped one of the nurses and questioned her about Chloe's condition.

"Bullet wound to the upper left quadrant of her abdomen and evidence of attempted strangulation," the nurse answered quickly. "Amazing thing, the x-rays indicate that the bullet missed every major organ and blood vessel. They'll know for certain when they open her up. It looks like someone or something was looking out for her. The police in Bay four came from the scene. They brought in a baby for an examination. Apparently she was running from a guy with a gun while carrying the little girl."

"Thanks Trudy," the Dean of Medicine told her with a nod. The nurse hurried away.

There was only one explanation as far as Cuddy could see: Chloe had somehow escaped from her captor and was trying to escape when he shot her. Where did the baby come from, though? There was only one way to find out. She hurried to Bay 4 and stopped in her tracks the moment she saw the baby being held by one of the police officers.

"_Rachel_!" She cried. Her body began to shake nearly uncontrollably as the rushed into the bay. "That's my baby!" Cuddy pulled the child out of the cop's grip before he could stop her and pulled her close, hugging her daughter for dear life and crying. For a few seconds all she could think about was her love for Rachel and the words Trudy had said: Her daughter had been in Chloe's arms as the chaplain fled. Rachel had been with Chloe. Chloe had been held captive. Chloe had been shot trying to escape with Cuddy's baby.

"What happened!" the Dean of Medicine demanded of the police.

"And you are…?" the cop who had been holding Rachel asked, still appearing startled.

"I'm Dr. Lisa Cuddy," she told him, speaking very quickly. "This is my daughter Rachel! The nurse said she was with the woman in Bay 6 brought in with a gunshot wound. What happened and why was my baby with her? Rachel's supposed to be with my boyfriend. Where is _he_?"

The cops exchanged knowing glances before the first one answered. "I'm Sgt. Halfer and this is my partner Officer Lang. The woman was seen running from an apartment building holding the baby with the gunman pursuing her. She ran into traffic to attract attention. The gunman fired a shot that struck the vic just below the rib cage straight down from her arm pit. A traffic officer directing traffic there fired upon the gunman just after, killing him. Your daughter was brought in to be checked out, just as a precaution, but she doesn't appear to have more than a small scrape on her leg. I don't know anything about your boyfriend, Ma'am, or why the vic had her. I'm sorry."

Cuddy nodded, feeling panicked. Where was Lucas and why had an abducted woman have possession of her baby? Cuddy hurried to the nursing unit with Rachel.

"Lady!" the cop called after, following. "We need proof that the baby is actually yours!"

"I'm the administrator of this hospital," she told him coldly with eyes that challenged him to try to pry the baby from her arms, "and I'll get you your proof when I'm done here!" She reached over the counter and picked up the phone receiver. She dialed Lucas' cell phone number. The phone rang eight times and she knew it was going to switch to Voicemail when it was answered.

"Hello?" an unfamiliar male voice said. Cuddy's eyes widened in surprise.

"Who is this?" she demanded. "Where is Lucas?"

"Lucas can't take the call…may I take a message?"

_A message_? Cuddy's mind repeated incredulously. Who was this person and why did he have Lucas' cell phone? Why couldn't Lucas answer the phone? She felt like she was going to collapse from fear. What the hell was going on?

"I demand to talk to Lucas now!" she half-screamed into the phone, earning a few curious glances from staff and patients within earshot, but she didn't notice. "Tell him it's Lisa and to get his ass on the phone--!"

"Dr. Lisa Cuddy?" the strange voice asked her and she felt like she was going to scream in frustration.

"Yes!" she spat.

"Dr. Cuddy, this is Detective Hunt." The voice said and suddenly the voice sounded familiar after all. Her stomach began to do somersaults and she felt breathless.

"Doctor," the detective continued without stopping. "There has been an incident. I'm sorry to inform you like this but the owner of this phone is dead."

Lisa nearly dropped the receiver. The quick-thinking police sergeant standing next to her grabbed Rachel from her as the Dean of Medicine's knees gave out and she slid down the side of the station desk onto her bottom, stretching the telephone cord to its maximum. The world seemed to stop. She no longer heard saw or heard anything but the voice on the other end of the line. Numbness began to take over her.

"Lucas is dead?" she croaked, her voice cracking. "H-how?"

There was a pause before Hunt continued carefully. "Are you referring to Lucas Douglas, your boyfriend, Doctor?"

Cuddy nodded slowly.

"Doctor?" Hunt said again after a moment. "Are you still there?"

A cloudy thought occurred to Cuddy that the detective couldn't see her nod and she answered softly. "Yes. That's right. He's dead? H-how? W-what happened?"

"I can't go over the details over the phone--." The detective began but she wouldn't have it.

"Tell me!" The Dean of Medicine yelled suddenly. "Enough of your evasive bullshit! My daughter was just brought in with Chloe LaSalle, who was shot, when she was supposed to be with Lucas so goddamnit answer my question!"

Now all eyes in the ER were trained on the woman on the floor who appeared to be having a breakdown of some kind.

She heard Hunt say to someone off the phone, "Confirmation, the vic is LaSalle and the baby is Dr. Cuddy's." Into the phone he said. "Dr. Cuddy, Mr. Douglas was killed in an escape attempt made by Dr LaSalle. There's a playpen in the apartment that LaSalle was being held in and it's suspected that your daughter was present in this apartment at the time. She grabbed the baby and fled for their lives from another man with a weapon we suspect was working with your boyfriend. We believe Douglas was part of a conspiracy involved in the abduction. I can't tell you any more than that, I'm sorry. We won't know for certain until Dr. LaSalle is able to tell us what exactly happened. She probably saved your daughter's life, Doctor."

Hot tears were running down Cuddy's face now. She dropped the receiver which the cop picked up and began speaking into but she didn't hear what was said and didn't care. Her mind was spinning, she couldn't think straight and her heart was breaking. Lucas was responsible for all of it…Thirteen and Foreman's assaults…the murder of Chris Taub…her car…Chloe's abduction and attempted murder…House's assault and…and the torture he had been put through…House. _Why? _She asked silently but really she knew why. Lucas was jealous of what she and House could have been. He hated the diagnostician for having loved and pursued her—her! It was revenge and it was because of _her!_

"Oh god," she moaned pitifully and began to cry in earnest, hiding her face in her arms and knees. Her whole body lurched and shook from the force of her sobs. Everything was coming out now. All of the fear and grief, all of the anger, everything. She had loved Lucas—perhaps not as much as she should have for the kind of relationship they were in-- but nonetheless she had loved him all the same. She cried for her friends and employees whom had been hurt by Lucas' actions. She cried because of what House had been put through because of her.

She cried because she loved House and he had loved her—she knew it—but she had chosen Lucas over the diagnostician because he had been more _responsible_! The irony of it was bitterness in her mouth. She lost the man she had loved for twenty years because of her pride, her gullibility, her utter stupidity. Now she was alone but she couldn't blame anyone but herself for it and that was the bitterest pill of all.

Trudy was suddenly crouched next to her with a comforting hand on her shoulder. Cuddy hadn't noticed her there until she spoke. "Dr. Cuddy? Is there anything I can do to help you?"

The Dean of Medicine looked up and shook her head. There was nothing anyone could do to help her now. "Call Dr. Wilson," she whispered and then buried her face again.

* * *

1 "You're Nobody 'Til Somebody Loves You" written by Russ Morgan, Larry Stock and James Cavanaugh.


	28. Chapter 28

**Reconciliations: A House M.D. Story**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its concept, current story line and characters past and current are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

A/N: This chapter is a bridge chapter, so not a lot of excitement but it's necessary to carry the plot along. All the same, I hope you like it. Please, please, please review? Thanks!

Songs that helped inspire this chapter include: "Keep Holding On" by Avril Lavigne and "When I'm With You" by Faber Drive.

**Chapter Twenty-Eight**

"So," Wilson said with a smile, rubbing his hands together enthusiastically, "What are we making?"

He stood with Sara LaSalle in the kitchen. She had her apron on and handed one to Wilson to don. The thirteen-year-old had put her hair up into a ponytail and held in her hand a computer print-out of a recipe she had found on the internet. He had already ascertained that the girl knew how to cook and decided that a good way to break the ice with her would be to have her cook with him assisting. Wilson wanted her to relax and feel at home while she was staying with him; he also wanted to distract her from worrying excessively about her missing mother. When Sara worried she grew frightened and fear led to her self-medicating herself with alcohol.

"This is the recipe I used for the cooking assignment that I aced," she told him. "It's my _Grand-maman's_. I e-mailed her to send it to me. "It's called Spicy Indian Chicken with Creamy Cucumber Salsa. I checked and you have all the ingredients."

"Sounds great," the oncologist told her. "Where do we start? Oh, wait! Before we do I think we need to look the part." He left the room and returned with a tall chef's hat which he placed on Sara's head. She frowned and crinkled her nose.

"You actually own once of these?" she asked incredulously. "Do you wear it whenever you cook?"

Laughing, Wilson shook his head, "No, I don't!" he told her. "I got it as a gag-gift from a friend of mine from my cooking class. I've kept it in hiding because if House ever saw it I'd never live it down! This, however, is a special occasion so I think it's only fitting that you wear it."

Sara sighed, looking at the doctor like he was crazy. "As long as you don't take any pictures, I'll humor you."

"Thank you," he said, smirking. "So, what do you want me to do first?"

"Well," she answered, slipping the hat hot while making a face. "If you want to start dicing the cucumbers you can start there. I'll start preparing the marinade for the chicken."

The two set to work, Wilson with his cutting board and chef's knife, Sara with a cutting board of her own, spoon, mortar and pestle, paring knife and bowl. Wilson watched the teen as she began to tear and cut the fresh herbs and measure them out. The tip of her tongue protruded out between her lips every time she was measuring. Her expression was serious, a slight frown on her brow as she measured extremely precisely as if she were mixing a batch of nitroglycerin. Once again she reminded the oncologist of House when the man was performing a delicate medical procedure or setting up a trap as part of a way to prank one of his Fellows.

"Does your Grand…?"

"_Grand-maman_," she finished for him. "It's French and it means Grandma."

Wilson nodded in acknowledgement. "Does she live in Canada?"

"_Oui_, I mean, Yes. She does," Sara answered, smiling with embarrassment. "Sorry. Every time I think of her or any of the rest of my family back home I end up speaking in French. It's okay at home because _Maman_ can understand me but not too many people around here speak it."

"So you must miss your family and friends a great deal, then."

Nodding, the teen glanced over to the oncologist. "I miss everything I left back in Quebec. I wish we hadn't had to move. I mean, it's okay here in Princeton but it's not home. Christmas is coming up and I don't even feel like it is."

"How is Christmas celebrated where you come from?"

Sara shrugged. "A lot of it is the same as here, I think, especially these days. My mom's family is very traditional and do a lot of things the way our ancestors did when they first came to Canada from France. My _Grandpapa_ says it has to do with preserving our distinct culture as a Distinct Society. On Christmas eve we celebrate the _reveillon_ which is a huge meal with family and close friends. _Maman_ has me sleep for a while in the afternoon because our celebration takes place very late at night. All of my aunts, uncles, cousins, Maman and I all go over to _Grandpapa_ and _Grand-maman's_ house in the evening and decorate this giant tree that my Uncle Jean and Grandpapa cut down in the bush and drag back to the house. We set up for the _reveillon_ and get the food ready and the small children set up the _crèche_ under the tree while the older children hang the stockings."

"What's a _crèche_?" Wilson asked, listening with rapt attention.

"It's a model Nativity scene—you know, a barn with a little baby Jesus lying in the manger and Mary and Joseph and often shepherds and wise men and sheep."

"Actually," the oncologist told her with a smile, "I don't know very much about the religious traditions surrounding Christmas. I'm more familiar with Santa Claus and gift giving."

"How come?"

"Because I'm Jewish," he told her. She looked up at him and then nodded.

"So you celebrate Hanukkah instead of Christmas," Sara concluded. "That's cool. I had a friend in Grade three who was Jewish. She used to tell me that during Hanukkah it lasted eight days and she got presents every one of those days. I thought that was a great idea so I went home and told _Maman_ that Christmas should be eight days long with presents every day, too. She told me that I get more than eight days worth of presents on one day but if I wanted to spread them out then she would see what she could do. I decided I liked getting lots of presents on one day better than a couple of presents each day for eight days. Don't let her fool you—my mom is one shrewd cookie!"

Wilson chuckled. "Your mom sounds a lot like my mom. I like Christmas, too. I'm not very religious so it doesn't bother me and I always thought Santa Claus was fun. But I interrupted you. Go on."

Sara shrugged as she lightly crushed the herbs in the mortar. "My whole family goes to Midnight Mass at my grandparent's church. _Maman_ and I aren't Catholic anymore but we go anyway just to be with family. After mass we go back to the farm house and have our big meal. My favorite food is _la Tourtiere_—that's a kind of meat pie made with ground pork and sometimes beef as well--and the Yule log but there's a lot of different things to eat. After the meal we open our stockings. My family opens the big gifts on Christmas Day but _Grandpapa_ says that traditionally the children had to wait until New Year's Day to open them. I think we get to open them earlier because some of my aunts and uncles aren't French and their tradition is to open them for Christmas. On Christmas day we open out gifts, have brunch and then all of the kids go outside and play while the adults stay inside to visit and relax. If you're done cutting up the cucumbers you can start on the onion."

"Oh, sure," Wilson smirked good-naturedly. "_I _get to cry my eyes out. What are you going to be doing?"

The teen grinned mischievously. "I'm going to finish this herb preparation and then I'm going to spread it on the chicken breasts and let them marinate for fifteen minutes. _Maman_ says if you cut the onions in the sink under cold water your eyes won't water as much."

"Does it work?" the doctor asked.

"I don't know," she answered honestly. "I've never tried it myself. Try it and tell me if it works."

Wilson shook his head, picked up an onion, his cutting board and a knife and headed to the sink. As he diced he glanced over at Sara every so often. She had been putting up a brave front in front of him but when she wasn't aware he was watching he saw the worry and pain she was feeling. He had no idea what to say or do to help her. She was right to be afraid; there was no guarantee that her mother would ever be found alive. He automatically thought of House; if Chloe didn't survive there would be two people, very much alike in ways, devastated. No…make that three.

The phone rang and he rushed to answer it.

"Hello?"

Wilson listened in disbelief as he was informed that Lisa Cuddy had collapsed in the Emergency Room and had requested that he be called. The clerk on the phone didn't offer any details, leaving Wilson in a state of shock. Had Cuddy been targeted and been injured and that was why she was in the ER? Had Lucas reached his point of desperation and hurt her? Or was it something else? He wanted to go to the hospital to check on her but he had Sara with him. Was it wise to drag the girl along with him or would that only amplify her fear? She was old enough to leave alone for a couple of hours if he had to but he didn't want to leave her alone; the last time she had felt all alone she had drank. He was frustrated that the clerk had refused to answer his questions over the phone.

Conflicted, he returned to the kitchen and regarded Sara thoughtfully. The teen turned away from the counter to see him staring at her. Her face shifted from curiosity to apprehension.

"Was that about _Maman_?" she asked in a small voice, fearfully. Wilson sighed making his decision. He shook his head and forced a smile.

"No," he assured her. "It was the hospital. I have to go there for a little while after dinner. If you come along I'll buy dessert."

Sara visibly relaxed and smiled weakly, shrugging. "Sure."

Wilson returned to the sink.

* * *

Detective Hal Molonitny sat in the hospital cafeteria with his partner, biting into a burger smothered in mushrooms and cheese. If his wife knew how much fat and cholesterol he was consuming she'd kick his ass; that's what made it taste all that much better. He was sick of chicken breasts, tofu and whole grain cereals.

"I was told LaSalle would be in surgery for at least another hour," Hunt told him, and shoved part of a BLT into his mouth.

Nodding, Molonitny swallowed and took a sip of coffee to wash it down. "In the meantime we should talk with Dr. Cuddy. I feel badly about how she found out about Douglas. Apparently they had to sedate her."

Hunt shrugged, not appearing to be particularly sympathetic. "I don't see how she could have been completely unaware of what her boyfriend was up to. He had to have been gone quite a bit at odd hours, secretive about what he was doing…how could she have not suspected something?"

Molonitny bobbed his head side to side. "She's a busy woman. With everything happening to her staff, dealing with the press and security concerns, trying to keep up with the everyday tasks of running a hospital and raising a daughter I can see how she could overlook a lot of things that would seem unusual in normal circumstances…not to mention the fact that love is blind."

"And deaf?" Hunt argued. "Sorry, I don't buy it."

"Well, I guess we'll find out soon enough," the senior detective answered amicably. It was entirely possible that Hunt was correct but Molonitny's instincts told him that the Dean of Medicine had been unaware of what her boyfriend was really doing. He couldn't see her allowing her daughter to be placed in danger if she had any clue that something was wrong. He wasn't naïve, however; people would do all kinds of creepy and downright evil things in the name of lust.

"At least we can call this case basically closed," Hunt told him, and swallowed a mouthful of soda.

"I hope so," his partner agreed, not completely convinced of that. "Call it a nagging suspicion—I just don't think we've seen the last of the trouble. Douglas could accomplish most of what was done on his own but he couldn't cause the patrol car outside of LaSalle's house to abandon its post."

"What do you mean?" the younger detective asked, puzzled. "You think there's someone on the inside that does? Please tell me you're kidding—I hate IAD investigations."

Molonitny shrugged and shook his head. "Douglas doesn't have that kind of pull, Mitch. On top of that there are the accomplices to think about. What was in it for them to get involved in this when we can't find any personal connection between them and House? Douglas wasn't rolling in money that he could have hired them to commit murder. There aren't too many friends who would go as far as murder to support a friend."

Hunt pointed a finger at his partner. "Yeah, but he was a private investigator. He could have had some dirt on them and was blackmailing them to help him."

"That would have to be quite the dirt to motivate a person to risk going to prison for life for charges of murder and conspiracy to murder," Molonitny argued, shaking his head doubtfully. "However, if they were being threatened with jail time by someone with the authority and bite to see it happen, they might be more inclined to cooperate."

"Seriously?" Hunt asked incredulously. "You really think that we're dealing with a dirty cop here?"

Molonitny shrugged. He didn't like the idea of that anymore than his partner did. "I don't know but I think it's a good possibility." He popped a couple of fries covered in ketchup into his mouth.

"I think you're making this more complicated than it is," the younger detective said with certainty. "I think we've got our mastermind and his minions and as soon as we tie up a few loose strings we can file this case and move on."

Swallowing, Molonitny told him, "I hope so. I really do. But tomorrow I'm still going to do a little hunt through the files to see if House has had any less than amicable interactions with someone in the force."

"From what I've heard about House, I think you'll be looking at a long list," Hunt smirked, wiping his mouth with his napkin and dropping it on his empty plate. "But happy hunting!"

The senior detective smiled ruefully, finishing his now tepid coffee in one gulp. "Time to visit Cuddy."

They emptied their trays into the trash and then headed to the Emergency Room. After flashing their badges they made their way back to the treatment area. After a quick inquiry they determined which bay Cuddy had been spirited to. It was a quiet one several bays away from the nearest patient; the curtains were pulled around it for privacy. They ascertained that it was safe to pass through the curtain and then approached the Dean of Medicine's bed. She was lying, inclined, under a thin blanket. She appeared to be pale and exhausted but otherwise in fair shape.

Cuddy looked up at them with dull, lifeless eyes and Molonitny wondered how much sedative she had been given and if she was even going to be able to answer any of their questions.

"How are you feeling, Dr. Cuddy?" Molonitny asked her gently. He held sympathy for her; he couldn't imagine what it would be like to find out that someone you loved and trusted was a murdering sociopath.

"Alright," she answered, trying unsuccessfully to put up a brave front, "all things considered. I don't know if I feel up to answering a lot of questions, though."

He nodded with understanding. "I promise to keep this brief. I was wondering if you can think of anything that you may have noticed about Lucas' behavior over the past couple of weeks that may have been a tip off that he was involved in the attacks on your staff and yourself?"

The Dean of Medicine closed her eyes and sighed. "I've been trying to think about that myself, but I really didn't notice anything unusual."

"To carry out a lot of his activities, he would have had to have been gone at odd hours of the day or night. Did you notice anything like that occurring that was out of the ordinary?" the senior detective pressed.

She shook her head. "He is—I mean, he was—a private detective. He didn't have set hours. He'd often be gone at odd hours and disappear without notice—it came with the job. The first time I noticed anything unusual was this morning."

Hunt looked up from his notebook. "Oh? What happened this morning?"

Shifting uncomfortably in her bed she shrugged, looking sad. "He just disappeared," she said. "I was making breakfast and got I phone call. He was standing right next to me holding Rachel while I talked and I wasn't paying attention to him for a minute or two. When I turned to where he had been standing he was gone. I figured he was in the nursery changing and dressing Rachel. I went to the window to see if the police car was still out front of my house—I guess I was feeling a little insecure. When I noticed it was gone, I went to find Lucas and both he and Rachel were gone. When I checked his car was missing and I realized he'd left the house with Rachel without so much as saying good-bye. That was definitely strange."

"Weren't you concerned about the fact that he took your daughter with him?" Hunt inquired, raising an eyebrow.

Cuddy nodded. "Yeah..yes I was, at first, but I was more annoyed than anything else. I trusted Lucas completely with Rachel. There is no doubt in my mind that he loved her, so I wasn't really worried. I had no idea that he was taking her to some 'hide-out' with him…I feel so stupid."

Molonitny nodded. He believed that she was telling the truth and really didn't suspect that her boyfriend was involved in something illegal. "You said that when you checked the police car was gone?" he clarified, glancing at Hunt.

"Yes," she replied, sighing tiredly. "I was a little concerned because I heard that the police car watching Dr. LaSalle's house had disappeared about the same time she'd been abducted."

"How do you know that?" the senior detective asked, taken aback. That information hadn't been released to the press.

"The phone call was from Dr. Wilson, who was told by LaSalle's daughter that when she discovered her mother was missing she went out to grab the police and found them gone."

Again Molonitny looked at his partner but Hunt was avoiding his eyes. One car leaving around the time of an attack could easily have been attributable to coincidence; a second car disappearing from the home of a victim made that much less likely. His partner knew it and didn't want to acknowledge that he just may be wrong.

"One last question, Doctor," Molonitny assured her. "Do you know if Lucas had any connections with a member of law enforcement or was meeting with someone in the police department?"

"I have no idea," Cuddy told him shaking her head. "If he did he didn't tell me. I don't mean to be uncooperative but I don't want to answer any more questions now."

"Of course," Molonitny told her, nodding. "That's all the questions we have for you right now. Thank you so much for your willingness to see us."

The Dean of Medicine didn't respond. She simply closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around herself. Taking that cue, Molonitny and his partner left her alone to rest. As they walked away from her bay Molonitny looked at his younger partner pointedly.

"Still think my police angle is completely out to lunch?" he asked Hunt.

Hunt shook his head and sighed. "I really hate IAD investigations, Hal."

The senior detective nodded, feeling his headache intensifying. _Me too,_ he thought to himself.

* * *

It was quiet in Dr. Darryl Nolan's car as he and House rode ever closer to Princeton. The satellite radio had been turned to an all-instrumental station and played at low volume, but the diagnostician wasn't listening. He couldn't stop thinking about the safety of his best friend, Chloe and her daughter and Cuddy. There was no doubt left in his mind that Lucas Douglas was the one responsible for the crimes perpetrated against his friends and associates. Wilson hadn't been attacked yet but he was House's best friend and was likely next on the hit-list. Sara, while not directly in harm's way could suffer collateral damage if Wilson was attacked. No word on Chloe was nearly driving him insane with worry. The longer she was gone, the greater the likelihood that she would be killed by her captors, if she hadn't been already. Cuddy was in grave danger living under the same roof as the private detective, as was her baby daughter. Then, of course, there was Thirteen and Foreman—if Lucas' intent had been to kill his targets, it was possible he would try again to murder the two of them. There was also the threat that still existed to himself, but that was of very little concern to him. His focus was on the safety of the others.

House absently rubbed his thigh, massaging the constantly aching muscle. Every time his anxiety level rose so did the pain. The non-steroidal painkillers he had taken just before leaving Mayfield barely touched the pain and were beginning to wear off already.

Nolan glanced sideways at the diagnostician, noticing the rubbing. "How bad is it hurting?" he asked his patient with concern.

"Between a five and a six," was the thin-lipped answer. "Tolerable, I guess."

"Once we reach our destination and you can get out of the car to stretch your legs the pain may subside," the psychiatrist told him. House doubted that but he didn't say so. Instead he dialed Wilson's number on Nolan's cell phone. He had tried both the apartment number and Wilson's cell phone but the line had been busy at the first and went directly to voicemail on the second. The apartment number was at least ringing this time.

Someone answered. Before the person on the other end of the line could speak, House started in. "Wilson, I'm in Nolan's car and we're on our way back to Princeton!"

"This isn't Dr. Wilson," a feminine voice with a French accent said and House's heart dropped to his stomach; for a second he thought it was Chloe speaking to him. Quickly, however, he reminded himself that Sara was staying with Wilson.

"Pinta," he said, smirking, "is Wilson there?"

"Oh, hi Fido!" she snarked in return. "He's changing right now and then we're heading to the hospital to check on Dr. Cuddy."

House alerted. "Cuddy? Why, has something happened?" he demanded. Peripherally he could see Nolan look his way in interest.

"I don't know…," Sara told him. "Wait, here's Dr. Wilson. You can ask him."

There was a pause before Wilson's voice addressed him. "Hello?"

"It's me," House told him.

"Hi!" Wilson responded. "Is there something wrong? You sound funny—are you calling from a cell phone?"

"Yeah, Nolan's," House answered quickly. "Listen—."

"Oh my god, House!" the oncologist cut him off in horror. "You didn't steal Nolan's phone and escape, _did you_?"

House rolled his eyes in disgust. "Shut up and listen! Nolan and I are on _our_ way back to Princeton. He finally saw things my way." The diagnostician glanced over at the psychiatrist to see a smirk flash across his ebony face. "Sara said you two were going up to the hospital to _check_ on Cuddy. Has anything happened to her?"

Wilson's response was uncertain, halting. "I…I don't know, exactly…I couldn't get the ER clerk to…give me any details…."

"ER clerk?" the diagnostician echoed, becoming more concerned. "Wilson--."

"All he told me," the oncologist cut him off, "was that she had collapsed from what appeared to be an emotional breakdown and asked them to call me. What's happened or what that even means I don't know, but I'm leaving right away, okay?"

"We're nearly in Princeton," House told him. "We'll meet you at the hospital."

"Right," was the response. House hung up and looked over at Nolan. "I've got a really bad feeling about this. Cuddy collapsed and is in the ER. Something about it being an 'emotional breakdown', whatever that means. Wilson is going to meet us there."

"Perhaps Dr Cuddy has learned that her boyfriend is involved in the attacks and it is proving to be harder on her than she is capable of handling," the psychiatrist speculated.

"Or this whole damned mayhem has caught up to her," House mumbled, frowning. He exhaled loudly and the sound of it quavered nervously. _How much more can any of us take?_ He asked himself silently. _How much more can I?_

"Are you alright, Greg?" Nolan asked him seriously. "What are you thinking right now?"

The diagnostician smirked bitterly. "I'm thinking that I want a goddamned drink, that's what!" he snapped.

Nolan was quiet a moment. "What are you feeling, Greg?" he asked quietly, calmly.

House looked at the passenger side window do that the psychiatrist couldn't see his face. He couldn't guarantee he could hide what he was feeling and he'd be damned if he was going to let his shrink to see it. The diagnostician knew, however, that Nolan wouldn't leave him alone until he responded.

"Afraid," he answered tiredly. "I'm fucking terrified."

* * *

When they arrived at the hospital Wilson and Sara went to his office first. The teen stepped inside and looked around the room with curiosity. Wilson took her jacket and hung it with his on the coat stand.

"You like classic movie posters?" Sara asked him, her eyes falling on the framed poster from the movie 'Ordinary People' hanging behind his desk.

"Not really," he told her with a smile. "Just classic movies. That poster was a gift from one of my ex-wives…I'm not even all that fond of it—I just haven't bothered to take it down."

"Ex-_wives_?" Sara echoed in surprise. "You mean, you've had more than one?"

"Three," Wilson admitted a little sheepishly. He didn't know why he felt uncomfortable about the teen knowing that fact but he did. "Big mistakes. Look, I have to go down to the ER. You're welcome to stay here and read or take a snooze on the sofa. If that isn't of interest to you there's the Doctor's Lounge down the corridor and around the corner to your left. There's a television, a WII with a few games, a foosball table…."

"Can I just tag along with you, Dr. Wilson?" Sara asked him uneasily. "I just don't want to be alone right now. I promise I won't make any trouble."

Wilson looked at her pensively. She was trembling slightly, had been all day, and in her eyes was fear. With everything that had been going on, with her mother kidnapped, he couldn't blame her a bit.

"Sure," he told her. "Let's go."

They walked side by side down the corridor towards the elevator.

"So is Dr. Cuddy your boss like she is my mom's?" she asked the oncologist.

"Yes, she is," Wilson told her. "She's the Dean of Medicine here at PPTH so she's the boss of pretty much everybody who works here."

"That's a huge responsibility, isn't it?" Sara queried. "She must be a pretty busy lady. I can see how somebody that busy with so many things to make certain run correctly might just need a break. Maybe that's what's wrong with her."

"Could be," Wilson agreed as they stopped at the elevator and waited for it to arrive. The girl appeared to be genuinely concerned for Cuddy, a woman she hadn't even met before. Both she and her mother seemed to have a strong empathy for other people that was more sensitive than with most people. It hung around them like a kind of aura.

The elevator arrived and took them down to the main floor and the Lobby. When they neared the ER nursing station Wilson was surprised to see one of the nurse's behind the counter bouncing a baby on her lap. Once they were at the counter Wilson realized that the baby was Rachel. He thought that very unusual, considering that Cuddy only brought her daughter to work with her when she had no other choice

Wilson introduced Sara to the charge nurse and the staffers standing around the station. As soon as the charge nurse heard her last name a look of excitement blossomed on her face.

"You must be so relieved that they found your mom!" Trudy told her, grinning. "Don't you worry, she's going to be alright!"

Sara stared at her in shock, unable to speak. Wilson was nearly dumbfounded himself.

"What are you talking about?" the oncologist demanded, uncertain whether to be excited, afraid or simply confused. "The police have located Chloe?"

Trudy was the one to look confused now. "You mean you weren't notified?" she asked Sara. The thirteen-year-old shook her head, her eyes filling with tears.

"We haven't been told anything," Wilson told her, growing frustrated. He put his arm protectively around Sara's shoulders. "What is going on?"

Trudy described to them what she knew about Chloe's escape with Rachel, fleeing a gunman and getting shot but saving the baby's life and then being brought in and rushed to surgery.

"I thought for sure the police would have notified you," Trudy told them, shrugging. "Your mom is a hero. Little Rachel had been taken there by one of the kidnappers and when she managed to escape she rescued her at the same time."

Sara began to cry, and Wilson couldn't tell whether they were tears of joy or of fear knowing that her mother had been shot and wasn't out of the woods yet. He was elated to here that Chloe was free but he couldn't help but wonder what exactly had happened and how on earth Rachel was involved in all of it. If the baby had been abducted too, Cuddy would have been sure to call him. In fact, he knew that Rachel had been with her mother and Lucas that morning when he had called the Dean of Medicine….Wilson shook his head until it dawned on him what had happened. Of course! House had been right! Rachel was at the kidnapper's lair with Chloe because the kidnapper was _Lucas! _Cuddy wouldn't have worried about Rachel being with her boyfriend because she didn't know that he was involved.

"Did they catch Chloe's kidnapper?" he asked the charge nurse quickly.

"I don't know exactly," Trudy told him uncertainly. "What I've heard is that Chloe killed one of the kidnappers with a heavy object and ran, taking Rachel with her. Then there was another guy chasing her and he shot her just before a cop in the area shot him dead. At least that's what one of the Paramedics told me when they brought Chloe and Rachel in. I don't know who either guy was, though."

Sara was crying hard now, and Wilson turned her around to face him, trying to get her to look at him. "Sara, it's okay. _It's okay_, sweetheart. Your mom is alive and safe! She'll pull through!"

The thirteen-year-old was nodding but continued to weep. Wilson pulled her into an embrace in an effort to comfort her. Eventually he began to feel her body relax and the sobbing slowly subsided.

"I want to see Maman!" she demanded, sniffling.

"You will," Wilson assured her gently. "She's still in surgery but when she's out and back in a room then I'll take you to see her, okay?"

"Okay," Sara agreed, wiping her face dry on her sleeve.

Trudy came around the desk and put a hand on Sara's shoulder. "Why don't you come back here with me and help me look after Rachel until her Mom is ready to take her?"

Sara looked up at Wilson and he nodded encouragingly.

"Okay," Sara told the nurse. Trudy led her behind the station desk to the nurse holding Rachel. Wilson watched as Sara picked up the baby girl and held her in her arms. Rachel seemed to take to her right away, as if she sensed that same calming empathy in the teen that he had noticed earlier.

Wilson caught Trudy's eye and mouthed to her a 'thank-you'. The charge nurse smiled in acknowledgement. The oncologist needed to call House and Nolan and give them the news about Chloe but first he needed to see Cuddy so he could update his best friend about both women at the same time.

He found the Dean of Medicine sitting on the edge of her bed, her feet dangling over the side. The moment Wilson saw her he knew that she knew about Lucas. Her body was slumped in despondency and her wan face, still tear-stained; she was the very picture of grief. Wilson had been angry since the medical convention for the way she had handled the situation with Lucas and hurt House, but he couldn't carry the grudge a moment longer. Cuddy looked up at him and climbed off of the bed as Wilson pulled her into a hug.

"Lisa," Wilson whispered. He heard her whimper a little.

"It was Lucas," she gasped, barely able to speak. "James, Lucas was the one who did all of it and I was too stupid to see it. It's all my fault!" She began to cry a little more.

"It's not your fault," he told her. "He fooled all of us."

Cuddy pulled away briefly so she could look him in the eye. "He went after everybody to get back at House because of his feelings for me. It _is_ my fault. I've been such a fool! All I wanted was some stability and a real family for my daughter."

"I know," Wilson told her with a nod. "But it was Lucas' jealousy that's to blame, not you. If it makes you feel better I can tell you that House doesn't blame you, either."

"He knows?" she asked in surprise. "How?"

"He figured it out earlier today," the oncologist answered her, smirking. "In fact he's managed to con his psychiatrist into bringing him back to Princeton. He should be arriving here any time now."

"Dr. LaSalle rescued Rachel," Cuddy told him. "She saved her life. She…she killed Lucas in order to escape."

Wilson nodded, not knowing what to say to that—what could anyone say about something so unbelievably horrible? He wondered how Chloe was going to handle the fact that she had had to kill a man.

"Where is Rachel?" Cuddy asked, running a hand through her hair and trying to reestablish a carefully crafted façade of the control that she usually possessed naturally. "I…I need to hold her, to take her home."

"She's at the nursing station with Sara," he told her with a grin. "She seems to have taken a liking to her."

The Dean of Medicine smiled thinly. "Do you think she babysits?"

Wilson laughed, wrapping his arm around his boss's shoulders and guiding her towards the nursing station. "Wouldn't that be a bonus?" he said in reply.

At the nursing station Cuddy went over to Sara and introduced herself and took Rachel from her with a smile. Wilson reached for the phone to call House about the good news. He began to dial when he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see the diagnostician and his therapist standing behind him. The look of exhaustion on his face and fear in his eyes would have made the oncologist cringe if he hadn't had such good news to give him. He knew he was grinning like an idiot at his friend.

"What's with you?" House demanded, frowning in confusion. "You look like a moron!"

"Chloe escaped her captors…it was Lucas alright. She was hurt during the escape but--."

The diagnostician's eyes flashed in horror. "Hurt? How? Is she here?"

Wilson couldn't stop smiling, grabbing his friend by the shoulders. "She was shot by one of her captors during her escape but--."

"_Where is she_?" House demanded, pulling back, his eyes searching Wilson's face for the answer. His whole body was like a spring ready to be sprung.

Before Wilson could answer Trudy called to him, holding the telephone receiver against her shoulder. "Doctors, Chloe's out of surgery. Everything went well without any complications. She's in Recovery but they're going to be taking her to ICU right away."

House spun around to head for the lobby when he stopped himself and turned back to the nursing station. "Pinta!" he called out to Sara. "Let's go see your Mom! Hurry up, I don't have all day!"

The thirteen-year-old grinned and nearly jumped over the desk to catch up to him. Wilson watched the two of them head for the elevators and then turned to Nolan who had been standing there silently the whole time.

"Good to see you again, Darryl. Thanks for bringing him back."

Nolan shrugged with a smile. "I did it for the sake of the nursing staff and his fellow patients," he said drolly. "You know, I don't think I have to keep an eye on him right now. He'll only be one place. How about joining me for a coffee and filling me in?"

Wilson nodded. "Sounds good. I want to see Chloe too but I think she's been claimed for the time being. The cafeteria is this way."


	29. Chapter 29

**Reconciliations: A House M.D. Story**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its concept, current story line and characters past and current are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

A/N: Hi! I don't know anything about Princeton so if I've blundered in any of the geography of the area, I ask that you forgive me. I did look up maps and Google Earth-ed it but that's not the same as actually having been there personally.

I really appreciate all of the wonderful reviews I've been receiving and I would encourage everyone who reads to please leave a review! Thanks!

Songs that helped inspire this chapter include: "Amazed" by Lonestar, and "You're the Devil in Disguise" by Elvis Presley.

**Chapter Twenty-Nine**

Opening her eyes was the hardest part of waking up. She was uncertain how long it took for her to emerge from the nether world of unconsciousness but once she was aware of the sounds, smells and touch around her the real challenge was opening her eyes. Chloe knew that there was someone lying right next to her, fingers tangled in her hair and breathing lightly in her ear. She heard the sound of chair legs scraping along the floor on the other side of her and a body shifting in it. The steady, quiet beeping reminded her that she was in a hospital bed—again. A hand larger than her own held hers warmly and gently. She was intubated so she was careful about not panicking against the strangeness of that feeling in her throat.

Forcing her eyelids open she saw that the lighting was dim and easy for her eyes to adjust to; she turned her head slightly to the right and discovered Sara curled up next to her, sound asleep. Chloe would have smiled had she been able to; it was overwhelmingly wonderful to see her little girl again. She turned her head to the left and found Gregory House looking into her eyes and smiling softly. He held her hand with his left hand. The relief she felt at seeing him there caused her eyes to tear a little.

"So I hear that you're a hero," he murmured to her. "You'll have to tell me about it sometime."

Chloe gently pulled her hand away from him and pointed at the breathing tube.

House shook his head sadly. "I can't, not yet. You're not breathing well enough on your own. You're going to be alright but it's going to take a little while. You were lucky…the bullet missed everything of consequence. A magic bullet, obviously."

Chloe looked at him knowingly and shook her head no. She wanted to tell him that magic had nothing to do with it; God had taken care of her. He hadn't prevented her from being shot—she didn't know why—but He had allowed her escape dying from it. Something good would come from all of it, but she may never know what it was in her lifetime.

"I think I know what you want to say and I'm glad you can't," the diagnostician told her, smirking. "I convinced Nolan to bring me back to Princeton just in time." His face frowned and his blue eyes filled with pain as his fingers traced the bruising around her neck, barely touching her. "What did that bastard _do_ to you?" His fingers went next to her wrist. Lifting her hand to his mouth his lips brushed feather light kisses along the bruising and abrasions, careful not to disturb the IV line in her arm.

The chaplain was glad she couldn't answer that question. The details would only disturb him and really made no difference anymore. It was over. There was something she knew she was supposed to tell him, but for the life of her she couldn't recall what it was. All she wanted to do was focus on him. The only thing keeping her from doing that was the pain in her torso that was gradually awakening. She closed her eyes and tried to focus on the caress of his lips on her skin. It wasn't working well.

"Chloe?" she heard House murmur after a few minutes. She opened her eyes again to look at him. "Are you in pain? You're heart rate has been increasing."

She was in a great deal of pain, now, breathing quicker in her effort to tolerate it. She nodded slightly. The doctor looked down at her, frowning in concern. He rose from his chair and limped without his cane to the IV regulator. Punching a code in he then adjusted something. As he did he explained to her what he was doing.

"You're on a morphine drip for pain. I'm just adjusting how much you're getting. You should start feeling relief soon." He sat down next to her again, reclaiming her hand. "I'm not the romantic type. It's been a long time since my last relationship—at least one that didn't include the exchange of money. As I've told you, I'm not easy to tolerate for very long. I just don't understand myself when I'm with you. I don't take to people…easily. Trust is not easy for me. So why do I trust you, Chloe?" He seemed to be having difficulty meeting her gaze but for brief glances. There was a vulnerability she saw in House that she knew only a precious few in the world had been allowed to see.

He paused a moment to kiss her fingers. "What is it about you that's different from everyone else? I'm not making much sense, am I? God…I'm afraid that when you find out who I really am inside you'll…leave. If you do…there won't be anything left of me. The last twenty-four hours has been hell. I believed I would never see you again. I couldn't think about anything else. I can't promise you much but I can promise you this…I need you…I…I don't just think that I am…I _know_ that I…love you. Just give me a chance to be the man you deserve." He shook his head and looked down at an indeterminate spot on the blanket over her.

More than anything else she wanted to take his face in her hands and plant small, tender kisses all over it and tell him that she loved him for him and that he didn't have to worry about her leaving. His past was his past and as far as she was concerned it was irrelevant. She had cob webs and skeletons in her closet that she was afraid to reveal for fear he would be repulsed and if he could love her anyway, how could she not love him too? It was frustrating to her not to be able to express these things to him. Tears floated on the surface of her dark eyes; a couple fell and slid down her face.

"Shh," he whispered, gently brushing the tears away. "Don't cry Chloe. I don't want to hurt you."

Chloe shook her head as far as she dared. Pulling her hand free from his grasp she placed her palm against his cheek. He closed his eyes and pushed his face into her touch. Her hand moved to his jaw and she traced the outline of his lips with her thumb in the closest thing to a kiss she could offer him just then. He kissed her thumb, grabbed her hand and placed kisses in her palm, opening his eyes to gaze in hers. She felt like she could see eternity in their azure depths.

House gave her a little smirk and moved his face to within less than an inch from her ear. His hot breath on her skin felt like electricity.

"I may get slapped for this later," he breathed, "but I can't wait until you're recovered so I can get you naked and kiss _every_ inch of you and show you exactly how much I love you! I'll start with my lips on your forehead and move my way all the way down; your every wish will be my command—and I do mean _every_."

Chloe smiled around the tubing. Perhaps it was the morphine or maybe the idea of what he was promising but she began to tingle from head to toe. With that, however, she felt her eyes grow very heavy again and her body felt like it was going to float away.

House leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. "_Ayez les rêves doux, ma Beauté_."1 Nodding almost imperceptibly, Chloe's eyes closed and she felt herself drift off to sleep.

* * *

House paused at the door and looked back. The tableau of mother and daughter sleeping peacefully next to each on the hospital made him smile. Apart, Chloe and Sara didn't look a great deal alike, but with their faces so close together the resemblance suddenly became uncanny—except for their coloring; Sara was fairer than her mom. They were both beautiful, angelic. He couldn't stop marveling at the effect Chloe had on him. Although it was different, he loved her as much as he did Wilson, and he had been friends with the Oncologist for years. It wasn't logical, which is probably why it baffled him.

He stepped quietly out, sliding the glass door shut nearly silently. He turned to nearly walk into two men. Instantly House could tell that they were cops.

"Dr. House, is it?" the older, darker of the two asked him with a pleasant smile and easy manner. The diagnostician looked him up and down suspiciously and then his younger, fairer partner.

"Who's asking?"

"We're with the Princeton police department," Molonitny told him, extending a hand to him. When House simply stared at his hand and made no move to shake it, the hand was casually withdrawn. "I'm Detective Molonitny and this is my partner Detective H--."

"What do you want?" House asked bluntly. If they thought they were going to go in and try to interrogate Chloe in her condition, they were going to be very disappointed—and hurting—depending upon how insistent they were. "She's sleeping and is not to be disturbed—by anybody."

"Actually," Hunt spoke up, "We were hoping to talk with you, Doctor. It will only take a few minutes of your time."

House scowled. He was in no mood to answer a bunch of questions. However, he had several of his own that he wanted to have answered; an idea came to him.

He spoke to Molonitny. "Do you know what quid pro quo means, Detective?"

Molonitny chuckled and nodded. "Yes, Dr. House. I may be just a dumb cop, but I do. It's Latin for 'something for something'. In other words, if you answer our questions, we must answer yours. I think that's acceptable. But I want the complete truth."

A smirk crossed the diagnostician's face; perhaps this cop wasn't all that 'dumb' after all; that would be a pleasant surprise indeed.

"Walk with me," House told Molonitny, ignoring Hunt altogether. He began to limp with his cane down the corridor, heading for a less public place to talk. He would have preferred going to his office but it was not ready to be used yet. The senior detective walked in step with the doctor and Hunt walked a pace behind.

"It was my understanding that you were undergoing treatment for depression," Molonitny said; it wasn't technically a question, the diagnostician noticed.

"I'm on temporary leave from the hospital," House told him, offering a freebie. "I'll be returning within the next few days." He turned into a small visitor's lounge that sat only six people at the most. It was after visiting hours so they wouldn't be disturbed. House sat down in one upholstered chair, lifting his aching leg onto the coffee table and resting his cane against the chair beside his; the detectives took up two more of the chairs positioned opposite him.

Hunt nodded at House's leg and inquired, "Sport's injury?"

House was about to throw him a pithy comment but restrained himself. "Yes," he said straight-faced. "I fell over a jump—fortunately she broke most of my fall and only my leg was hurt."

Hunt looked at him stoically, obviously not getting the joke. Molonitny did, however, and smiled with amusement. House determined he was only going to answer the older detective's questions.

"Since I'm in a good mood right now," the doctor said, "I'll let you start."

The senior detective sat forward in his seat, folding his hands calmly in front of him. "As you're probably aware, two of Dr. LaSalle's kidnappers were killed today during her escape from them. We've identified the gunman as forty-five year old Peter Haszon. The guy doesn't have any criminal record whatsoever—he seems to have just appeared out of nowhere. The other suspect was Lucas Douglas and I'm sure you're acquainted with him seeing as you once hired him to investigate your team members for you. There's a third party, a woman named Sandra Luchak, was also involved but we haven't apprehended her yet. Do either of the names Haszon or Luchak ring any bells with you? Former associates or patients, perhaps?"

Searching his rather impressive memory House tried to recall if he had ever met anyone with those names but nothing occurred to him. They were somehow connected with Lucas but he didn't recognize them.

"No," he answered. "I have had a lot of patients…still, I don't recognize the names. They may have been clients of Lucas'."

Molonitny nodded and Hunt scribbled. "Yes, we've thought of that possibility and we're checking into it."

House looked Molonitny in the eye; it was his turn. "Quid pro quo…How did Chloe manage to escape?"

"We don't have all of the details," the senior detective answered honestly, "but we've been able to piece together a construct based on evidence at the scene and witness statements. She was being held in an apartment along Plainsboro Road between Maple and Prospect. She had been gagged and bound and at some point there was a strangulation attempt. She must have convinced her captors, probably Douglas, to untie her hands and possibly her feet as well. There was a white board in the bedroom she was being held in and it looked like she was communicating with her captors using it."

"If they tried to strangle her, they may have damaged her larynx so she couldn't talk," the diagnostician told him softly. He tried not to focus on the kind of pain and suffering Chloe would have experienced while being choked.

Nodding, Molonitny continued. "We're not certain at what point she tried to make a break for it, but it looks like she asked Douglas for a glass of water. He went to get it for her, likely forgetting to bind her again before leaving the room. We found his body lying across the threshold of the bedroom, dead, an empty glass by his hand. He had been struck on the head with a heavy bronze lamp which crushed his skull. It's likely LaSalle stood in wait for him to return with the water and then incapacitated him."

In spite of the grisly nature of Lucas' death House couldn't help a small smile of pride. An angry Chloe was a force to be reckoned with; he remembered how she had fought like a wildcat in the restaurant parking lot two nights before. She was a passionate woman and he looked forward to finding out how she behaved in the heat of another kind of passion. His smile faded however when he realized what an impact killing someone—even if it was justified—would have on the chaplain.

"We figure she ran for the exit, saw Rachel in a playpen in the living room, grabbed the baby and fled the apartment. There was the other suspect—Haszon—in the apartment as well. He pursued her, firing several rounds while still inside the building. LaSalle was seen running out of and away from the building, heading for the street—probably to attract as much attention as possible—and was shot trying to wave down a car. A Traffic officer happened to be present and shot Haszon dead."

It didn't surprise the doctor that Chloe would have risked being caught to rescue Cuddy's daughter. The mental picture of her being shot in the street and collapsing with the baby in her arms was one House wished hadn't formed in his head.

"Your turn," he told the detective, folding his hands behind his head.

"Do you suspect that Dr. Cuddy may have, at some point, been aware that her boyfriend was targeting you and your team?" Molonitny asked.

"No," House said without hesitation. He knew Cuddy too well to suspect her of something like that. Had she known, she would have gone to either him or the authorities immediately. "There is absolutely no way. My turn. I understand Lucas' motive, but what about the other two? Why were they working with him—it wasn't for money. What did he have on them?"

The diagnostician watched the senior detective's expression carefully for any hint, any tell, of duplicity. He was surprised to see how open the cop really was.

"We're not one hundred percent certain," was the reply that came with a shrug. "Like I said, Haszon has no criminal record that could have been used as leverage. The woman is a different story. Luchak has an extensive criminal record, mostly misdemeanors. She may have done something more serious that he knew about and was holding over her. She is in violation of her parole agreement so it's possible that was it."

House considered that. "It's possible," he said to Molonitny, "that Haszon was caught doing something—maybe the fourteen-year-old babysitter, for example—by Lucas during one of his investigations. Statutory rape can ruin one's marriage and social life, not to mention one's freedom."

Molonitny smirked and glanced at his partner briefly before asking, "What was Lucas' motive for going after you, do you think?"

"My penis is larger than his," the diagnostician sarcastically. "He was afraid that I was going to steal Cuddy from him, jealous of my obvious…attributes and the way women simply can't resist me."

"Was there any risk of that occurring?" Hunt interjected only to receive the look of death from the doctor.

"That's two questions in one turn," House told Molonitny, ignoring the dirty look the younger detective cast at him. "That's a foul. I get to ask two in a row as your penalty. Firstly, if you've found your man, why are you still investigating?"

He saw the senior detective appraising him carefully. This was going to be interesting.

"I'm not convinced that there isn't yet another accomplice we haven't identified yet," was the answer. "There may yet be someone with farther reaching connections involved."

The doctor frowned upon hearing that. Another accomplice, other than the missing woman?…but who? If there was still someone at large, they may all still be in danger, the mayhem not yet over. He knew that the detectives wouldn't give him that information unless they figured he knew something that could help them identify who that was. Such was the strategy behind Quid Pro Quo.

"What makes you think that—you have to have a reason? What is it?"

"That's two questions," Hunt sniped impatiently. He obviously had no use for the diagnostician and his game. "_Your_ foul!"

"That was two-parts, but still only one question," House sneered. "_No_ foul!"

Hunt bristled. "Look, I've had enough of your games--."

Molonitny raised his hand to silence his partner and it worked. House smirked; so the pit bull was paper-trained. The older detective calmly answered the question.

"Twice the police guard supposed to watch the vics and potential targets disappeared against orders. One of those times occurred close to the time of Dr. LaSalle's abduction. There's a possibility that someone in the department or someone in some way connected to the department may be involved. Douglas wouldn't have the influence or authority to call those cars off."

House stared at Molonitny in disbelief, shaking his head. A dirty cop involved with Lucas? After the revelation the detective had just made it made sense—a lot of sense. If Lucas didn't have something over one of the accomplices the cop may have. It certainly would make it easier to attack doctors in a hospital full of cops if one of the accomplices was a cop. It made sense that Lucas was able to abduct Chloe in broad daylight with supposed police protection at her home if those cops were told by one of their own to take a hike. He was furious that Chloe and the rest had been placing their trust in the police when it was possible it was the police they should have been afraid of.

"Quid pro quo, Doctor," Molonitny told him, breaking him out of his reverie. "I have a two part question of my own: Is there any reason you can think of for a cop to have it out for you? If so, then who?"

The truth was, House knew that he had had a lot of run-ins with the police in the past—being a smartass drug addict attracted trouble; however, lately he'd been keeping his nose clean. He still drove like a maniac and was a smartass towards all symbols of authority but was less unpredictable and violent than when he was on Vicodin. Vicodin. If it was a cop with a grudge it would date back to pre-Recovery…." The diagnostician's eyes widened suddenly and he began to kick himself for taking this long to think of it.

"You have someone in mind?" the senior detective asked him, noticing the recognition in the doctor's eyes.

"Tritter."

Molonitny heard the softly spoken answer but he wanted to be sure he had heard it correctly before he reacted. "Did you say Tritter, Dr. House? Detective Michael Tritter?"

The diagnostician nodded slowly as his brain calculated the possibilities to see if it was indeed possible that his old nemesis had returned with the intent to make his life a living hell again.

"That's exactly who I said," House told him firmly. "Back when I was still using Vicodin, he tried to have me busted for drug possession with the intent to traffic. Used it over me to get me into rehab, then changed his mind and wanted to see me rot in prison instead. He blackmailed my colleagues into testifying against me in court. I managed to evade jail by going into detox, which I faked quite easily by having drugs brought to me on the inside. I remember the look on his face the last time I saw him. He could have killed me with his bare hands if he could have got away with it. It wouldn't surprise me if that sanctimonious sonofabitch was working with Lucas!"

Molonitny and Hunt looked at each other meaningfully; it was the latter detective that broke the news. "Detective Tritter is no longer on the force. He quit almost two years ago. He was demoted by the brass for embarrassing them over something—likely your case—and he went kind of…."

"Psycho," Molonitny finished for his partner, his eyes meeting the doctor's. "Began getting violent with his arrests, defying his superiors--there was even the rumor that he had started drinking a lot. God damn! Even off the force he's got a lot of guys still on who thought he got shafted who'd be willing to help him out." He turned to his partner. "Mitch, we need to get back to the station—start looking into Tritter's whereabouts and activities over the past week. We have to be casual about it. We don't need to tip anyone off that we're investigating him."

The detectives rose smoothly out of their chairs; House followed suit a little more slowly. His leg was throbbing without mercy. He reached into his pocket automatically and found he had nothing in there—no Ibuprofen, no Naproxen—like he usually did. Of _course_ he didn't—he was still a patient without permission to dispense meds to himself. He'd have to find Nolan _tout suite_—while he still could move under his own power.

"Thank you, Dr. House," Molonitny said with sincerity. "Until we know for sure, keep your head up and only tell about Tritter to those who absolutely need to know."

House nodded curtly and watched the two detectives stride out of the lounge. Tritter. He thought that rotten chapter of his life was closed but not it appeared that it wasn't. The diagnostician swore to himself that Michael Tritter would have more than a thermometer rammed up his ass if he showed his face anywhere around him again. With that thought in mind he tapped his cane against the floor and then headed in the direction of the nearest nursing station to locate a phone and have Wilson paged and bring Nolan with him.

* * *

Pulling her rental car into her double garage Lisa Cuddy glanced over at the empty spot where Lucas' car normally sat while he was at her place. His car would never be parked there again. That thought brought mixed emotions to her: grief, anger, fear, and shame. He had caused so much hurt to so many people—him and his 'honest' face; Mr. Responsibility had sure pulled the wool over her eyes. She couldn't believe how blind she had been, how much she lost because he fit into her idea of the perfect family man.

She tasted bile in her mouth, her stomach churning. How much _she_ lost? She couldn't get the face of Dr. Chris Taub out of her mind. He had lost his life. Rachel Taub had lost her husband, her Soulmate. Thirteen had lost her sense of security at work along with her blood; the scar that would be left on her neck as a result of the assault on her would be a permanent reminder. Foreman nearly lost his life and now remained in a coma, perhaps never to awaken. If he did awake, then what? How much of his neural functions would be lost to the effects of the cyanide? No matter what loss he may suffer he would certainly never be the same man again. LaSalle--? Cuddy stopped herself. Not LaSalle…_Chloe_. She would always be Chloe to the Dean of Medicine from now on. The chaplain had selflessly risked her own life to take the time to save Rachel from the hands of a maniacal gunman. She would always have a place in Cuddy's heart for that. She had been beaten, nearly strangled and shot…her loss would be great, especially in terms of the time it would take her to recover physically. Emotionally it was anyone's guess how long it would take her to heal.

House?…well, perhaps he was suffering worse than them all. Physically the toll on him had been relatively light. A broken hand, some bumps and bruises—but the psychological toll had nearly killed him. It had nearly undone months of hard work pulling his life out of the chaos of drug addiction. He ended up having to return to the psychiatric hospital. He would take it as a failure; he already blamed himself for what had happened to them all. That was all on top of the humiliation he had felt at discovering Lucas in her life after she had misled him for weeks following his return to Princeton. It all caused Cuddy to realize how easy she had got off compared to the rest. She lost a little of her dignity at being duped, and a good-for-nothing boyfriend who used her to get at her friends and employees, who got a little pussy and a whole lot of protection from scrutiny as a bonus. She lost her car—a goddamned car that could be replaced at the click of a mouse, really. She still had her daughter, safe and sound and her own health. She had lost basically nothing but baggage.

So why did she grieve Lucas?

Shaking her head she got out of her car and reached into the back-seat to retrieve her daughter from the car-seat she had borrowed from the hospital; Rachel's own car seat was likely still in Lucas' car, wherever the hell that was. A few car-seats were kept on hand at PPTH to loan to patients who found themselves in a similar predicament as she had that evening. The baby was still wide awake in spite of the car ride home; she usually fell asleep in the car. That was fine as far as Cuddy was concerned. All she wanted to do was curl up in her living room and cuddle her child close to her, thankful that she was still alive.

She carried Rachel into the house and straight to the nursery where she would change her and get her ready for a bath. She hadn't even set the baby down when the phone rang. Cuddy considered letting the answering machine pick it up but then thought better of it; it could be news from the hospital or the police. Taking Rachel with her she went to answer the phone on the extension in her bedroom.

"Hello?"

On the other end of the line was a click; at first she thought that the caller had just hung up and was about to do so herself when an automated message began to play. _Great_, she thought ruefully. _Telemarketers. Just what I need right now!_ Only it wasn't a telemarketing ad…it was _Lucas_. The Dean of Medicine listened in shock. He had sent her a pre-recorded message from the grave.

"Lisa," the message went, "I set this up on my computer to ring you at ten o'clock just in case I didn't get a chance to talk to you personally when you got home, so if I've already talked to you, just hang up. If not, then you have to listen to me carefully and do exactly what I have to tell you. I just found out myself—that crazy bastard! Please, Lisa. It's for your safety. I can't explain to you how I know this, but _you have to get out of the house right now! Get out!_ You've only got three minutes before the bomb will go off! I'm not kidding—_run!_"

Cuddy dropped the phone in a panic. She had no idea what was going on but she wasn't going to risk ignoring the warning. _A bomb! _ With Rachel in her arms she ran, scooping up her purse without stopping. She stopped at the front door and began to frantically unlatch and unbolt the locks; she swung it open so hard that the door knob left a dint in the wall in spite of the door stop. She ran away from the house and towards the street as quickly as her feet would carry her, her heart racing a million miles a minute. She had barely reached the curb when she heard it: it sounded like a balloon popping followed by crackling and then the sound of air being sucked towards the house. Finally there was a microsecond of a pause before the loudest bang she had heard in her entire life.

The Dean of Medicine dove with her baby behind a parked car as a fireball burst forth in every direction, sending light and heat just before a shockwave that hit the car, moving it a quarter of an inch away from the blast. Pieces of what was once her home flew yards up into the air, some of the debris smashing into the neighboring houses, a four-foot length of two-by-four hitting the car she ducked behind like a rocketing projectile. Some of the wood, shingles, plaster, glass and metal began to rain down around her and Cuddy covered Rachel with her own body to protect her. She felt pieces of material fall against her head and torso, some of it sharp and cutting, some of it hard and bruising; a particularly large piece hit her head and she cried out in pain but when everything began to settle she was still in one piece and Rachel was unscathed but crying.

Cuddy was crying too as she pulled her baby to her chest in a bear hug and rocked on her haunches to soothe her herself as much as her daughter. Neighbors were running out of their houses into the street staring at the disaster burning hot before them. She heard the sound of shoes running up to her and a hand on her shoulder.

"Are you and your baby alright?" the man from the house three down from hers asked her with concern. What was his name…oh, yes. Russ. His wife was Denise. She was the president of the block association. Was she alright? Cuddy had no idea. She rose slowly to her feet without answering him, tears still falling down her face. She stared at the flames consuming what was left of the house that hadn't been sent flying.

"You're head is bleeding, Lisa," Russ told her with concern but she didn't hear him. She didn't feel any pain—the injury was probably superficial; heads were quite vascular. Even the smallest scalp cut would bleed quite a bit without any serious injury having been sustained.

The Dean of Medicine turned to her neighbor, staring at him dully. "Could you hold Rachel for a second?" She asked him, handing her daughter over to him without waiting for an answer. She forced herself to stop crying and wiped the tears from her face with her hands. When she pulled them away from her face she saw blood mixing with them. She reached into her purse and pulled out her cell phone. She dialed Wilson's.

When the oncologist picked up she said into the phone, "Wilson, it's me, Lisa."

"Lisa?" Wilson responded, sounding alarmed right away. She realized that she had to sound like hell to inspire that kind of response from him. "Are you okay? What's wrong? You don't sound good!"

Cuddy laughed almost hysterically at the ridiculousness of his questions. "My house just blew up into a million pieces, James! Lucas warned Rachel and me to get out. He called me from hell to save our lives!"

"What?!" Wilson shrieked. "Where are you? You're not making sense, Lisa. Lucas is dead! Lisa?"

"My head's bleeding," she told him, her voice beginning to shake uncontrollably. "I hear the sirens coming. I have to go get something to stop the bleeding." She sat down on the curb and looked up at Russ and Rachel. He was encouraging her to come with him somewhere but she was too tired to stand up again.

The next voice to come over her phone wasn't Wilson's. "Cuddy, it's House. Do you hear me? What happened?"

"My house blew up," she answered, her body shaking now. "House, I got hit in the head and Russ has Rachel. I need somebody to come and help me stop the bleeding. It's getting in my eyes now."

"Lisa," House said deeply, now using her first name, something he almost never did. "Is there someone there with you?"

"Yes," she answered, nodding. "Russ is."

"I need you to listen carefully to me," House told her calmly but an edge to his voice belied that. "Give Russ the phone! I need to speak with him. Are you still there? Lisa?"

The Dean of Medicine began to feel woozy and she laid down in the gutter, curling up into the fetal position with the phone still in her hand. "I'm sorry, House. I should never have become involved with Lucas. He did all of this because of me."

"It's not your fault," the diagnostician told her . "Don't blame yourself. Lisa, I need you to give Russ the phone. Can you do that for me?"

"For you," she answered and then held out the phone towards her neighbor. Russ frowned in confusion and took the phone. Cuddy looked up to see another person approach, a woman this time, wearing a uniform and carrying a bag slung over her shoulder.

"Ma'am," the woman said to her. "My name is Vanessa and I'm a paramedic. I'm here to help you."

The Dean of Medicine heard her neighbor say into her cell phone, "Yes, the paramedics are here now, Doctor. Yes, she's still conscious…I'll tell them."

"Can you sit up, Ma'am?" Vanessa asked her, helping Cuddy to a sitting position. The paramedic took a look into the doctor's eyes and then flashed a penlight into them to check the responsiveness of her pupils to light. "Can you tell me your full name?"

Cuddy opened her mouth to speak but she couldn't quite remember what it was she was going to say. The paramedic kept asking her questions but they weren't making any sense to her. She could hear Russ tell Vanessa that he had the Dean of Medicine's doctor on the phone and to have her taken to _her_ hospital. She watched as a field dressing was applied to her head and a uniformed male arrived with a gurney, lowering it. She cooperated as they helped her on to the gurney, strapped her on and rolled her into the back of an ambulance.

"Rachel?" Cuddy asked the faces looking down at her. Where was her daughter? She thought she heard Vanessa assure her that Rachel was safe with the police. Everything was moving very slowly and everybody was talking funny. In the back of her mind Cuddy knew that she had a head injury, that she was being taken to the hospital. She felt movement and subliminally noticed as the paramedic and EMT worked over her.

The doctor felt her headache now, and it was bad. She closed her eyes for what seemed to be a few seconds at the most but when she opened them again she was no longer in the ambulance. She was indoors somewhere; the pot lights on the ceiling above her whizzed by and then the faces looking down at her changed and one of them, then two of them she knew.

House stared down at her with his shockingly blue eyes, his face blurry but still unmistakably his. He was saying something to her but she couldn't hear him. She saw Wilson's face appear, looking very worried.

"I can't…hear you…." Cuddy tried to tell them but she couldn't tell for certain whether she said that or just thought it. She was so tired and her eyes felt heavy; she closed her eyes again, the thought floating around in her head that if she went to sleep she would never wake up. Regardless, she just couldn't keep her eyes open another second and allowed them to slip closed.

1 Translation from French: "(Have) sweet dreams, my Beauty!"


	30. Chapter 30

**Reconciliations: A House M.D. Story**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its concept, current story line and characters past and current are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

A/N: Oops! I accidentally submitted the last chapter with some editing incomplete as I'm sure some of you noticed. I noticed it the next day and went back and replaced the chapter with a proofread one! Sorry for the inconvenience!

I'd like to express my thanks to everyone who has faithfully reviewed so far. At the end of the story I would like to list those who have helped me complete this—the first fanfiction story I wrote! If you don't want me to mention you in the list, please contact me and let me know. For everyone else, please review—I do consider all of the reviews I receive and often use the suggestions given to me!

Songs that helped inspire this chapter include: "I Won't Back Down" by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. (Yes, I listed this song in Chapter Thirteen, but I think it kind of suits this chapter, too—so indulge me!)

* * *

**Chapter Thirty**

Standing outside the hospital room occupied by Dr. Lisa Cuddy, House stared through the glass wall. A neurology resident, Dr. Jessup, was giving a standard test to ascertain the administrator's level of consciousness and cognitive functioning. She had asked the diagnostician to step outside while she administered the test to reduce any distractions that could affect the results. Lying inclined on the bed the Dean of Medicine's eyes were open, her head bandaged and she looked one hundred percent better than she had when she had arrived at the Emergency Room three hours before. After head x-rays and a CT scan it had been ascertained that she had suffered a major concussion from a piece of debris striking her head as well as a second degree scalp laceration. It was good news considering what she could have suffered in such a situation. Just seeing her awake was a huge relief to him.

The neurologist stood up and stepped out of the room, approaching House.

"How'd she do?" he asked her, watching the younger doctor's face for indications of what she was thinking and feeling.

Jessup nodded positively. "Quite well. She had a little difficulty with recalling the date and she appears to be suffering some memory loss pertaining to the events that occurred following the injury to the present. Otherwise, she's doing well. No indication of problems with her short-term memory, no verbal problems, she's able to answer questions logically and her fine motor skills appear to be only slightly impaired but I suspect that will improve over the next day or two."

The diagnostician nodded in acknowledgement and Jessup left him to see to something at the nursing station. House stepped into Cuddy's room. Immediately she looked over at him and smiled weakly as he approached the bed. She looked so frail lying there, so unlike the way she normally appeared. There was strain in her eyes.

"Hi," she said softly. "I guess I didn't get off easy after all."

House shook his head, looking very serious. "You were intended to die in that explosion," he told her. "How much do you remember about it?"

"About the explosion?" Cuddy clarified. "Everything. I just can't remember much of anything afterwards." She closed her eyes for a moment and frowned. "Lucas was the one who warned me to get out of the house. Don't look at me like that. I'm not crazy! He sent me a prerecorded phone call set to ring me three or four minutes before the explosion. I don't know how he did it. In his message he said that he would probably see me in time but if he didn't I had to listen to what he told me to do. He mentioned that he had only just learned about the bomb himself and so sent the message. He also mentioned that someone else was responsible for the bomb but he didn't say who."

Nodding slowly, House pondered that. For all of Lucas' evil actions, at the end he tried to do the right thing by protecting his girlfriend and her daughter from harm. Perhaps the private detective had really loved Cuddy after all, but had allowed his insecurities and jealousy to drive him to extreme measures to frighten the diagnostician away from his girl. It was sick and twisted but at its very core House could understand. His mind recalled the Shakespearian quote: 'Beware, my Lord, of jealousy! 'Tis the great-eyed monster which doth mock the meat it feeds upon.' 1 What member of the human race could claim to have never fallen prey to jealousy? Certainly not him! House was still angry, but he could empathize.

_Empathy_? The diagnostician thought. _Since when do I have empathy for anyone?_ He did, however. Perhaps this was a symptom of the change Nolan claimed to be able to see in him. House wasn't certain if such change was a good thing. It made evaluating people and their motivations a lot more complicated.

As far as who was responsible for the bomb, House now felt quite certain that he knew. How they were going to stop this kind of thing from happening again he didn't know.

"It's Tritter," House told her sotto voce, even though they were the only ones in the room. "He was working with Lucas, and he's still at large. None of us are truly safe until he's apprehended."

Cuddy gave him a look of complete disbelief. "Tritter? You can't be serious!"

"You're right," House quipped sardonically. "I just love joking about sociopathic ex-cops with an axe to grind against me and everyone I know! It's a real turn on!"

The expression on his boss' face changed to one of irritation. "You don't have to yell! I've got a splitting headache!" she told him sharply. After a brief pause she added in a softer tone of voice, "I'm sorry, House. It's just so…incredible. Did you say _ex_-cop?"

The diagnostician nodded, less angry. "Apparently he quit," he explained. "At least that's what the cops told me earlier tonight. He went nuts after being foiled by yours truly and was demoted. That and his preternatural hatred for me make a pretty strong argument for motive. The detectives I spoke to told me that there is strong evidence to suggest that a dirty cop is involved and they asked me if there was any one particular cop who might have it out for me. It makes sense."

Shaking her head Cuddy smirked. "Why can't you make enemies of people who don't have homicidal tendencies like, oh…girl scouts, for example."

House repressed a smile. "Too boring. Besides, what makes you think I haven't?"

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "Are the police even looking for him?"

"Once they can confirm that Tritter was even in the area for all of this," House answered. "At least they're investigating him." He looked at the floor. Tritter was another person who, like Lucas, wouldn't be involved in their lives if he hadn't introduced them into them by his behavior. Sure, it was the past and he couldn't go back and change it. That didn't negate the fact that he brought this upon himself and, as a result, the people around him. It made looking any of them in the eye extremely difficult.

As if reading his mind the Dean of Medicine said to him gently. "You're not to blame, House. And even though I feel guilty for being the blind Lucas hid behind throughout this, I know that I'm not, either. Neither one of us made our past decisions knowing that in the future they would result in bringing two monsters into our midst. Beating yourself up isn't going to solve anything."

The diagnostician looked up at her and nodded. She was right. It was time to stop feeling sorry for himself. He had to think of a way to protect the others while helping the police find and apprehend Tritter before he acted again.

"I just came by to check on you," he told Cuddy. "I have to be going. Nolan is pulling the curfew thing on me. Wilson has taken Sara back to her place and will stay with her there until Nolan and I return to Mayfield. If you need me, I'll be at Wilson's. Try to get some rest. Your sister has Rachel so you don't have to worry about her." He turned to leave when Cuddy caught his sleeve. He looked back at her questioningly.

"I just wanted to thank you," she told him.

"For what?"

"For caring enough to check on me," she answered simply. House saw something in her eyes that he hadn't seen in quite some time—warmth. He tried to appear nonchalant, shrugging it off.

"I did it to get Wilson off my back," he told her before turning and leaving.

The toll of the day was wearing on the diagnostician. He hated to admit it but he was completely exhausted. He wanted to sit with Chloe for the night but his psychiatrist had informed him that he needed to get a proper night's sleep in a real bed. Fatigue, he had said, had deleterious effects on a person's psychological health. He felt guilty about not arguing the point harder but he knew that if he didn't get some real rest he wouldn't make it through the weekend. Chloe would likely sleep throughout the night, anyway. Not that he expected her to protest even if she didn't. He'd make certain he was back at her side first thing in the morning.

His limp was a little more pronounced as he and his cane made their way to the lobby where he had told Nolan he would meet him. It wasn't lost on House how much trust his therapist was showing by not following him around everywhere he went. It wasn't that the psychiatrist was being foolish; he was giving the diagnostician just enough leash to move freely but not enough to hang himself on.

Nolan was waiting for him at the empty information desk, just as they had agreed upon. As House reached him his therapist nodded appreciatively for not keeping him waiting too long. Together they walked out to the psychiatrist's car in silence. There was really nothing to be said and both of them were too tired to engage in idle small talk. In the morning, after some much needed sleep, they would talk about the plans for Monday.

James Wilson woke up in a strange bed and was, at first, uneasy…until he realized that he was sleeping the spare bedroom of Chloe LaSalle's house. It was morning; sunlight streamed in the small crack of space between the curtains and crossed his body. He could see dust particles floating in the air where that beam of sunlight struck them. He felt like he had just fallen asleep. His night had been dreamless, or at least, he couldn't remember dreaming. That usually only happened when he was sick or completely worn out. He glanced at the ticking alarm clock on the side table next to his bed. It read nine-thirty.

He could faintly hear the sound of a shower running in the bathroom directly across the hall. Obviously Sara was already awake and getting ready for the day. He couldn't help but wonder why a thirteen-year-old girl would drag her carcass out of bed before noon on a Sunday. He puzzled with that as he waited for the rest of his brain to wake up. The water stopped and about five minutes later he heard the bathroom door open and then another door close quietly.

He swept back the duvet covering him and swung his legs over the side of the double-sized bed; he forced himself up to sit up. Resting in that position for a moment or two he then found the energy to stand up and stretch out his stiff muscles. The mattress had been a little too firm for his liking but it was better than sleeping on a sofa—something he had done a lot of in the past when he had stayed at House's one bedroom apartment after being kicked out by one of his ex-wives. At least he approved of the décor of the room—of the entire house. Chloe had excellent taste. Wilson smiled a little; House would have had a field day with the oncologist making that observation.

Quietly he opened the bedroom door and looked down the dimly lit corridor. A light shone out underneath one of the doors—obviously Sara's room. Wilson crossed the corridor into the steamy bathroom Sara had just vacated. He flicked on the light and shut the door, locking it. Lifting the lid and seat Wilson relieved himself and then flushed the toilet. He went to the sink and washed his hands and then looked into the mirrored door of a medicine cabinet. The stress of the past week was having a toll on him. Dark circles hung beneath his brown eyes and the fine lines around his eyes appeared much deeper as did the frown lines on his forehead. It hadn't occurred to Wilson just how afraid he had been, worrying as he had about House and Chloe, Sara and now Cuddy. He wondered why it was no attempt on his life had been made. He was House's best friend and anyone who knew the diagnostician at all knew that hitting the oncologist would be a devastating blow for him.

Before he and Sara had left the hospital for the night House had found him and informed him of what the detectives had told him about likely police involvement and the high probability that the dirty ex-cop was Michael Tritter. As astounding as it sounded, Wilson had to admit that it made sense. Of all of the law enforcement officials in New Jersey the only one Wilson could think of that might want to see his best friend dead was Tritter.

It only meant one thing: he was next. There was no one else left to target. Wilson was determined to use that knowledge to remain hyper-vigilant for the slightest sign of trouble. He wasn't responsible for only himself, after all; he had Sara to protect as well.

Wilson unlocked the door and emerged from the bathroom, returning to his room. Once there he grabbed his bathrobe, throwing it on over the t-shirt and boxers he was already wearing. Before arriving at Chloe's last night Wilson had stopped at the apartment to grab a few things while Sara gathered hers to take over.

He padded down the carpeted corridor to the stairs and descended to the main floor. It took him a few moments to orient himself and find the kitchen. He found the coffee pot already on and brewing. Sara had beat him to it. How had she known that he would be up already to start the coffee? He realized that she couldn't have known and was brewing it for herself. Thirteen and drinking coffee? When he was thirteen his parents wouldn't even let him drink Coca-Cola because it had caffeine in it.

After a short search he found the sugar and coffee cream as well as some bread and some cold cereal. Very little of the food Chloe kept in her house seemed to be sugary or fatty. She apparently ate very healthy. Wilson smirked. House wasn't going to like that one bit. The diagnostician turned his nose up at anything too green or nutritious; his idea of a well rounded meal was an extra-large pepperoni and Italian Sausage pizza with extra cheese. He could see disagreements over where and what to eat in House and Chloe's future. It struck him that in that future he would no longer have sole custody of the over-grown kid in a fifty-year old body. If a relationship progressed between House and Chloe, and it certainly looked likely, the dynamic between him and his best friend would automatically change to adjust. The oncologist wasn't certain how he felt about that.

Wilson heard the muffled footsteps of Sara coming down the stairs and approaching the kitchen. He looked over to see the thirteen-year-old enter the room. She wore a soft pink blouse and a chocolate brown skirt. Her hair was pulled back off of her face into a ponytail and the hair coming out from the elastic had been loosely curled. She even wore the slightest bit of mascara and nude-colored lip gloss.

"Wow!" the oncologist said, pleasantly surprised. "You look lovely, Sara! What's the occasion?"

She moved to the cabinet above the coffee maker and retrieved two mugs. "Church," she said matter-of-factly. "It's Sunday, after all. Would you like me to pour you a cup of coffee, Dr. Wilson?"

Now it made sense why she was up so early! It hadn't occurred to him that Chloe, being a chaplain, would of course attend church and teach her daughter to do so as well. Wilson wasn't used to being around people who actively practiced their faith like the LaSalles obviously did.

"Uh, yes, please," he answered and watched as he poured two cups, placing one in front of him on the island. She took hers and began to doctor it. "Sara, does your mother know you drink coffee?"

Taking a tentative sip of the hot liquid she nodded. "Yes," she answered and smiled crookedly, "but she doesn't like it. I started sneaking coffee at church during the fellowship time between Sunday school and the Worship service. She's always busy talking with people and she didn't notice until I'd been sneaking it for about three months, and then only because someone snitched on me. She would often see me hanging around the coffee cart but she had always shrugged it off, thinking that I was stealing sugar cubes like most of the kids and youth."

The oncologist smiled. "So I guess I shouldn't tell her that you brewed yourself a pot-full today, I take it?" He brought his mug to his mouth and drank.

"Not just for me," Sara justified, "but for both of us. I'm just being a good hostess."

"Of course," Wilson agreed, resisting the urge to chuckle. "Look, I'll go get dressed and then I'll drive you to your church and pick you up once it's over."

"You don't have to," she told him. "I called a girl from my Sunday school class and her parents are going to pick me up in about ten minutes. They'll bring me home afterwards."

"You should have something to eat before you go," he advised her. The thirteen-year-old nodded and went to the fridge, where she pulled out a brick of cheese and two apples.

"Do you like cheese and apples?" Sara asked him. "I can cut you some, if you like."

He thought about that. His stomach was starting to growl. He nodded and then sat on a stool and watched as she sliced the cheese and sectioned the apples, leaving the skin on. Plating them she set one in front of her guardian and one in front of herself.

"Is this what you usually have for breakfast?" the oncologist asked her and popped a section of apple in his mouth.

Sara shrugged. "When I'm in a hurry. Sometimes I'll have a bowl of cereal. My doctor told me that it's much better for me than Pop-tarts. Cheese has calcium and protein as well as a little fat—he said we need to eat some fat in our diets—and the apple has carbohydrates and nutrients like vitamin C. He told me it was a better breakfast for my hypoglycemia."

"You have hypoglycemia?" Wilson responded. "I didn't know that."

"I know how to manage it," she told him. "I try to eat something every three to four hours and I know what to eat and what not to. I keep glucose candies in my pocket in case I find my sugars drop while I'm out and I'm nowhere near food. Mom has gone a little weird since the doctor told her that I have it—everything's healthy and organic now. I miss my Pop-tarts and my Cocoa Puffs."

"You do realize that drinking alcohol can cause a drop in blood sugars, don't you?" the doctor asked her, trying not to sound like he was lecturing her. "Drinking to excess can cause a serious drop that could cause you to pass out or worse."

Sara dropped her head slightly, and looked at him in brief, sheepish glances. "I know. I guess I'm not thinking much about that when I do."

"Just something to think about now so you'll be more likely to think about it when you're tempted to drink," he told her, smiling weakly to keep the mood light.

Rolling her eyes the thirteen-year-old said in exasperation. "Yes, _Mom_!" She turned and took her dish to the sink and washing it along with the now empty mug, knife and cutting board. She dried them and put them away and then headed for the living room.

Wilson shook his head and chuckled softly. It was no wonder why Chloe was attracted to House: She already had been raising a version of him for thirteen years—except for the cleanliness factor, that is. Swallowing the last of his coffee, he rinsed out the mug and set it along with the plate to wash after Sara had left. He followed her out into the living room. She was standing by the door, looking out a small window that ran the length of the door. She had her jacket on and was holding onto what Wilson assumed was a Bible.

"When you're at church," he advised her, "stick with the crowd and don't get separated from the family taking you today."

Sara looked at him quizzically. "Why? They got the guy who kidnapped _Maman,_ didn't they?"

He didn't want to alarm her, but the fact was she could still be in danger and she had to know to be cautious just in case. He was almost tempted to go to the church service with the girl to keep guard but then had a vision of his Grandmother Wilson sitting up suddenly in her coffin and bumping her head against the lid.

"There are still a couple of people who were accomplices of the person who abducted her that haven't been caught yet," Wilson told her carefully. "It's highly unlikely that they would come after you but you need to keep your head up just in case."

Two nervous hazel eyes stared back at him at that and the oncologist wondered if he had made a mistake in telling her that. Sara nodded slowly, swallowed and then said stoically, "I will have to trust God, then." She turned back to the window and started. "They're here! I will see you around one o'clock, Dr. Wilson. Bye!"

Wilson watched her dodge out the door and shut it behind her. He peered through the window to watch until she had safely climbed into the SUV that had stopped in front of the house and the vehicle drove away. He locked the door again.

He returned to the kitchen to finish cleaning up breakfast. He stood at the sink washing the few items they had used by hand and humming softly to himself. As he reached for his mug the cuff of his sleeve brushed against a teaspoon and knocked it to the floor. With a sigh he bent over to pick it up.

The kitchen window exploded into hundreds of splinters and a cabinet door on the opposite side of the room was hit by something incredibly fast and hard. Wilson instinctively jerked up to his full height and stared at the shattered window in astonishment. Had some kid thrown a rock through it? Before he could think more about it another object whizzed invisibly past, just rustling the hair on the top of his head. Again the cabinet banged and splintered and he whipped his head around to see two distinctive holes in the oak door. Bullet holes! Wilson dropped to his knees and then laid flat on his belly just before another bullet hit the cabinet, right along the line of fire where his head had been seconds before. His shocked brain finally came to the conclusion that someone was shooting at him! He hadn't heard the bangs that followed the hammer of a gun striking loaded bullets. It had to be a silencer of some kind at work.

Panicked the oncologist got up onto his hands and knees and crawled as quickly as he could towards the nearest telephone, which just happened to be across the room mounted on the far wall just out of his reach. He would have to rise up to grab the receiver and dial out. At least there was a quick-dial button labeled POLICE that would speed up how long he had to expose himself to the line of fire. His entire body was shaking and he wasn't even certain if his legs had the strength to lift him up the two and a half feet to the phone. He took a deep breath and sprang upward, focusing on the phone so that he grabbed the receiver and punched the correct button; his left hand grabbed the receiver and he stabbed at the button with his right but missed it. He hesitated the moment it took to try again, and successfully hit it. As he was coming back down he heard some of the shards of glass still left in the window shatter and felt the bullet as it tore through his right bicep and exited the other side. He screamed in agony, hitting the floor hard. He dropped the receiver and grasped his wounded arm.

He saw the blood as it began to flow over the back of his hand and down his arm, staining his robe and making tiny splashes against the tile flooring. He forced himself to look at the wound and inspect it. The bullet had cleanly transected the muscle and missed the bone by an eighth of an inch at the most. He knew a large blood vessel, probably either the brachial artery or the cephalic vein, had been hit as well by the large amount of bleeding that was taking place-- he had to stop the flow or he would bleed out quickly. With his bloodied left hand he grabbed the dangling receiver and put it to his ear, gritting his teeth against the pain.

"Nine-one-one dispatch," a male voice answered into his ear. "State the nature of your emergency."

Wilson's teeth were chattering when he spoke. "I…I've been sh-shot! I n-n-need the police and an a-ambul-lance right-t-t a-away!"

"What is your address?" the dispatcher asked efficiently, "followed by your name."

Wilson leaned his head back against the wall behind him and closed his eyes. He was panting.

"Seventeen-thirty Brady…I-I think..," he forced out of his throat. "Dr. J-james Wi-ils-son. I-it's my u-upper arm—right bicep—clean-n t-trans-s-section. M-major blood v-vessel d-damaged. I'm b-b-bleeding out-t h-heavily. M-must hurr-ry!"

The oncologist was covered with quite a bit of blood and some was pooling on the floor. He felt lightheaded with the drop in blood pressure. He had to find something to act as a tourniquet and quickly before he lost consciousness. His robe belt would do the job. He pinched the phone receiver between his ear and his shoulder and fumbled one-handed with the knot. Once the material was untied he pulled on it to draw it through the belt loops.

"Could you repeat your address again, sir?" the dispatcher asked him. Wilson breathed heavily into the phone.

"S-sevent-teen th-thirty B-Br-ady," he reiterated angrily as he wrapped the belt around his right arm just above the bullet wound and struggled to tighten it. He tried to grab one end of the rope in his teeth, dropping the receiver again. After a few attempts he managed to get it sufficiently tight enough and after a few more attempts he managed a simple knot. Exhausted from the effort he leaned his head back against the wall again. It was become a little more difficult to breathe and he was feeling dizzy. He knew that he was close to passing out; he felt his body begin to slide sideways along the wall. Picking up the receiver again didn't occur to him. All he could think about was the pain and getting enough air in his lungs.

He heard the doorbell ring, but there was no way he could get up and answer it. Was it the ambulance already? That was pretty quick…. The doorbell rang again and then a third time. What were they waiting for? Shouldn't the police have knocked the door in by now? There was a person bleeding to death in here! Someone began banging on the door with a fist and there was muffled shouting.

Wilson tried to call out but his voice was too weak to carry much past the kitchen. He felt like he was about to faint. _Hold on_, he told himself, _they'll figure out that I can't come to the door and unlock it for them!_ The banging stopped and the oncologist could hear a siren. Wait a minute…if the siren was still approaching then who….?

Whoever it was interrupted his train of thought when he kicked forcefully at the door, straining the bolt and hinges. One more powerful kick and the door left its hinges with a crash.

"Wilson?!"

The owner of that name looked up in surprise.

"House?" he called out weakly, not believing his ears. _What is he doing here? I didn't call him! _"House? I'm in the kitchen!"

He heard the familiar sound of two feet and a cane rushing towards him, followed by two other feet. He closed his eyes; the room was spinning. He felt his best friend rush to his side more than heard him. Immediately the older doctor was inspecting his arm and then checking his airway.

"Wilson?" he heard House say, grabbing his left shoulder and giving it a shake. The oncologist slowly opened his eyes to see the face of his friend looking at him with deep concern. "Talk to me!"

Wilson was beyond stuttering at this point when he said, "W-what are you doing here---you should still be asleep!"

The flash of a relieved smile crossed the diagnostician's face.

"Shut up, you idiot!" was the retort. House turned to Nolan, who had just entered the room and saw the mess. "Grab something for me to wrap around his arm!"

The psychiatrist was already doing that and returned to Wilson's side with a number of tea towels. Together the two other doctors used them to staunch the flow of blood that was still able to make its way past the tourniquet.

"Where's Sara?" the diagnostician asked Wilson. Outside the siren stopped and then a second one did as well.

It was more difficult to speak now, but Wilson replied, "She went to church. A friend's parents-s picked her up just before…before the shooting began. F-from the window. Be careful…he may still be out there!"

"Not with two cop cars and an ambulance around," Nolan stated, keeping his hand on the oncologist's wrist to keep track of his pulse. Heavy feet were heard entering the house.

"In the kitchen!" House shouted to them and then to Wilson said softly. "Just stay with me. You're going to be alright."

"Now I w-will," Wilson murmured, leaning his head back again and closing his eyes. He felt so weak!

Two uniformed police ran into the kitchen, guns drawn. Before they could aim at the three doctors House shouted, "We're unarmed. We're doctors! Get the paramedics in here! He was shot through the arm!"

After the police secured the scene and announced a Code Four the paramedics were cleared to come in with their gear. Backing away to give them space to work, House described the nature of the injury, Wilson's pulse and status.

The senior paramedic got a pressure cuff on Wilson's left arm while his partner tore the rest of Wilson's robe open and took utility scissors to his t-shirt. Once his chest was bared contact leads were stuck to the oncologist's body.

"BP ninety-five over fifty-eight," the paramedic told his partner and the doctors. "Sir, can you tell me what happened?"

Wilson opened his eyes but didn't move. He was in shock and he knew it. House had told him to hang on and was right there, squatting awkwardly with his bad leg, looking at him with worried blue eyes.

"I…was shot," Wilson answered, slurring slightly. "Through the w-window. I don't know who it was."

"Pulse one hundred and eleven," Nolan announced. The second paramedic wrote it down on a binder chart. Throughout this House had been securing the make-shift field dressing in place; to remove it and replace it with a 'proper' dressing was to risk increased blood loss again.

"He's fading fast," the diagnostician told the paramedic softly with forced calm. "Start a line…."

Wilson felt himself fade away for a bit until he felt someone slapping his cheek.

"Hey, quit that! Wake up, Wilson!"

Opening his eyes he saw House staring down at him, no longer trying to repress the appearance of concern. The older doctor had a firm hold on his hand.

"House?"

"That's right," the older doctor said sharply, frowning. "Quit fucking around and stay with me, okay?"

Nodding, Wilson tried to force his mind back to what was being done to him. He had been lifted onto a stretcher and was being secured by straps. An IV had been started in his arm in an effort to up his fluid volume to support his blood pressure and prevent dehydration. A hand came into his vision with an oxygen mask, placing it over his nose and mouth.

"Breathe as deeply as you can, Wilson," his best friend instructed. The oncologist nodded in acknowledgement.

"I'm gonna be…alright?" the younger doctor said, but it was unclear whether it was a question or a statement. He felt the stretcher moving now.

"Damned straight!" House told him, still holding his gaze and walking along side the stretcher. "I'd come for the ride but I don't want Sara to come home to a bunch of moron cops and a pool of blood in the kitchen. As soon as she gets back we'll meet you at the hospital."

"Good…idea," Wilson agreed. The stretcher passed through the front door and was carefully lifted down the front steps and then back down onto the ground. His best friend walked as far as the waiting ambulance.

"They're going to load you into the Bus, now," the diagnostician said, laying a comforting but bloodstained hand on the oncologist's shoulder. "Don't be a wuss and pass out on the drive!"

"I'll…try not…to."

House hopped backward as one of the paramedics took his place and the helped load the stretcher onto the ambulance. Wilson strained to keep his eyes locked with his friend's until the back ambulance doors were slammed shut.

The ambulance doors were slammed shut by the driver, who then hurried back to the cab and climbed into the driver's seat. Ten seconds later it rolled away and the siren was activated once it had picked up speed. The diagnostician watched until it was out of sight, his hand gripping his cane with white knuckles. Gregory House felt anger so intense that he wanted to take his cane and destroy everything in sight with it. He turned and headed back in the direction of Chloe's house. Nolan was standing a few yards behind and fell into step with him.

"I want to beat the fucking life out of Tritter for this!" House spat, his voice elevated. "And don't tell me to calm down, Nolan!"

"I won't," the psychiatrist assured him, his voice nearly a growl. House glanced over and saw the anger on his therapist's face. His large black hands were clenched into fists; the diagnostician was reminded of the fact that Wilson was Nolan's friend too. That commonality between the two men was oddly comforting. The doctors got as far as the threshold of the kitchen before being stopped by a cop from going any further. It was now classified a crime scene and had to be kept as uncontaminated as possible for the investigators and forensic team.

House and Nolan looked at the spot where they had found Wilson just a few minutes before. A pool of blood sat on top the tiled floor and was smeared about on the floor and the wall. Several sets of feet left varying bloody footprints around the kitchen and on the carpet leading out the front door. The phone receiver remained off of the hook, covered in crimson smears as well. The loud beeping sound announcing that the phone was off of the hook echoed in the empty kitchen. House couldn't see where the bullet that had passed through Wilson's arm ended up. It looked like the scene of a murder and the diagnostician shuddered, realizing that it very well could have been.

He felt Nolan's hand on his shoulder; the African-American was watching him with unreadable eyes but House sensed concern. It was then that he noticed the tears on his face. He was crying! _What the hell?_ He thought to himself, genuinely surprised. Why was he crying when he still felt such rage? The diagnostician went to wipe his face with his hand and stopped just before he made contact with the tears; Wilson's dried blood was all over it.

"Let's wash our hands and then go sit in the privacy of the car," Nolan suggested evenly. House nodded. Together they found the laundry room just off the back door and washed the blood off into the large sink using a little liquid laundry detergent as hand soap. He wiped his hands dry on his jeans and then wiped the tears off of his face with his hands.

Once they were seated in Nolan's car, the motor running to run the heater for a while, the psychiatrist spoke.

"I'm concerned, Greg."

Avoiding looking at him, House said, "I have no idea why I was just crying. I'm furious, not sad."

His therapist nodded. "Sadness is not the only emotion that can evoke tears. Extreme frustration can do the same thing, as can fear. My concern isn't for that, though. Crying is actually a healthy response to the situation."

The diagnostician frowned, puzzled. "So what are you concerned about?"

Nolan took a couple of seconds to gather his thoughts. When he spoke he stared straight out the windshield instead of trying to catch his patient's gaze like he normally did. It occurred to House that the psychiatrist was having an issue of his own.

"I think I've made a mistake with my treatment plan for you," he said in his velvety smooth voice. "I assumed that having you leave Princeton and be readmitted to Mayfield was the best course of action concerning your suicidal ideation. I believed that once you were separated from the events taking place with your associates and friends you would be able to relax and be open to therapy. I was certain of it. Now I'm not."

"What do you mean?" House demanded.

"I mean," Nolan explained, "that by forcing you to leave your friends during this period of upheaval was the wrong move. Your depression and suicidal thoughts needed attending to, definitely. However, removing you from the action only contributed to your depression by increasing your frustration over not being able to do anything to help them and making you feel isolated in your pain. Yesterday you actually looked calmer when you could do something to help Dr. Cuddy and you could see with your own eyes that Chloe was alive and would remain that way. After you spoke with the detectives you appeared empowered, like you felt some control with the knowledge you had to work with.

"Today, you were more concerned about Sara than you were for yourself and your own emotions—but in a positive way. You stayed not to punish yourself or deny yourself the need to go with James but because you wanted to save her the trauma of coming home to a crime scene. Your actions are selfless, not self-destructive. Your anger is appropriate anger and not once did I hear you even suggest that what happened to James was your fault. Did you think it?"

House thought about it and then shook his head. "No," he admitted. "I don't think I did. I kept thinking about how I was glad to be here to help Wilson and keep him fighting. I felt like I wasn't…useless."

Nolan finally looked over at his patient and nodded. "Exactly. Once you were able to accept on some level the fact that you are not responsible for what is happening you've become able to act proactively and that has given you a sense of strength and purpose. Being here, even with the trauma that has continued to build around you, has actually empowered you. When I saw you yesterday morning staring out the window not even moving it occurred to me that you had no reason to. I think that's why I agreed to bring you back here. It was an experiment…to see how you would respond to returning to the mix of things while still having the perceived safety of having me on hand in case of a meltdown."

House had to smile ruefully at that. "Instead of the scientist I became the rat. So this is what it feels like on the inside of the cage. I'll have to remember this the next time I decide to run one of my social experiments—not that it'll stop me. So what you're saying is…I've done well."

"Very well," the psychiatrist told him with a hint of pride.

"So I don't have to go back?" the diagnostician pressed hopefully.

Nolan stared emotionlessly at him for what seemed to an eternity before shaking his head and answering, "No—but, before you get too excited there are some conditions linked to you remaining here when I return to Mayfield tomorrow."

House smirked. "It wouldn't be you, Nolan, if there weren't."

The psychiatrist ignored the jab. "First, you have to report to me by phone twice daily until I say otherwise."

"Fine!"

"Secondly, I will be adjusting your anti-depressants slightly and I'll be adding Wellbutrin to what you are currently taking. It will start off low dose at first and then I'll adjust it accordingly in about a month."

House's response was a little less enthusiastic this time. "Okay, I guess." He didn't like the idea of adding another antidepressant to the cocktail he was already taking, but at least Wellbutrin had one positive side-effect: It often improved the sexual libido instead of dampening it like most SSRIs. That was always a bonus. If he had to take the Barney Pill (so called because it was round, purple, the markings formed something like a smiley face on its surface and it made one 'happy'), then it was a sacrifice he would willingly make.

"Finally," Nolan began and House audibly groaned. The worst was always left to the end of the list! Nolan started again. "Finally, I will make arrangements Monday morning with a colleague of mine at PPTH to have you admitted into an outpatient Process group through the Psych department as well as requiring you to attend sessions with me weekly instead of bi-weekly for the time being."

House groaned again, biting his tongue to prevent him from saying something he knew he would regret. He could suck it up if it meant he could stay in Princeton with Chloe and Wilson. No matter how much he hated Process group it was better than being stuck with a horny and delusional roommate who called him Sergio.

"Fine," the diagnostician said quickly before he could change his mind. "I'll do it. I'll hate it, curse you out daily for making me do it—but fine."

"Good," Nolan said, allowing himself a small, smug smile. "There is only one problem. With James in the hospital for at least a few days following the surgery he's going to need to repair his arm, you will have no one to stay with you. Being left alone at home, particularly during this stressful time, is not an option."

_Think fast!_ House told himself. He couldn't allow something as ridiculous as that keep him from remaining in Princeton. The solution came to him almost immediately.

"I won't be alone," he told his therapist. "Until Wilson is released from the hospital and Chloe is still an inpatient, Sara will have to stay with somebody—why not me? We substance-abusers can keep each other accountable."

Nolan nodded in agreement and extended his hand to House to shake on it. House rarely shook hands with anyone but he took the psychiatrist's hand and shook it firmly.

His eye caught movement in the rear-view mirror. House looked up to see a sedan pull up and park behind Nolan's car. Out of it emerged the two detectives House had spoken with the night before. As they noticed him and approached the car the diagnostician sighed. _It's time for the Inquisition,_ he thought.

* * *

1 From William Shakespeare's play 'Othello".


	31. Chapter 31

**Reconciliations: A House M.D. Story**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its concept, current story line and characters past and current are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

A/N: Okay, as you will see I stole the idea in the last scene of this chapter from the episode "Wilson" but it was kinda hard not to considering how it's exactly the way you would expect House and Wilson to behave in that situation…and mine's got it's differences—so there! The rest of it is definitely all made up by me!

Songs that helped inspire this chapter include: "One Way or Another" by Blondie and "Staring Down" by Collective Soul.

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-One**

Seeing the detectives approach Darryl Nolan's car, Greg House and the psychiatrist stepped out to meet them. House briefly introduced Dr. Nolan to them as a colleague and his therapist played along; there was no need for the cops to know the true nature of the relationship between the men.

Hal Molonitny introduced himself and Hunt to the psychiatrist and then asked House if they could have a word with him alone. The diagnostician shook his head in negation.

"Whatever you have to say, you can say in front of him," House told them. "I trust him." It was the truth. He was growing to trust his therapist more and more.

"Actually, Doctor, this is rather sensitive information."

The diagnostician glared at him and said nothing.

"Very well," Molonitny agreed hesitantly. "Perhaps we should talk somewhere more private than out on the front sidewalk?"

"Lead the way," House told him. Molonitny looked at his partner; it was some kind of unspoken signal because immediately following it Hunt headed towards the house. He spoke with a Uniform guarding the door and then another walked up to the detective. They spoke briefly before the cops began to leave the house one by one, standing around looking awkward and uncomfortable.

"Follow me," Molonitny told the doctors. They followed him to Chloe's house and on inside as the last uniform inside vacated the premises. House glanced questioningly at Nolan, who simply shrugged in return. They joined Detective Hunt who was now standing in the living room. Molonitny double-checked that all police personnel were out of ear-shot of the door before joining the other three men in the living room.

"Have a seat, gentlemen," the senior detective told the doctors, gesturing to the sofa while he and his partner took the love seat.

"So what's with the song and dance?" House demanded as he and Nolan sat down.

"Song and dance, Doctor?" Hunt asked stiffly.

House gestured around the room and towards the door. "This evacuation that took place--what's it about?"

The diagnostician watched Hunt carefully; since he was younger and thus likely less experienced he hoped to see the younger cop slip up and give up some clue as to what was going on; he was disappointed. Hunt's demeanor was stolid, impassive.

"We needed to ensure that no one else hears our conversation," Molonitny explained, smiling weakly. "We know that there is definitely a mole working for Tritter in our unit, so we can't chance having him listen in. First, news on Tritter: After a little research and putting some pressure on some of our sources we learned that he moved out of the house he had been living in for fifteen years two weeks this coming Monday. There has been no notification of a change of address filed at the DMV, his current place of employment, his insurance company, the IRS, or anywhere else for that matter but our most reliable snitch told us that he was seen coming and going from the apartment Dr. LaSalle was kept prisoner in at least twice a week. Where else he's been holing up we don't know. He sold his home on August thirty-first of Oh-Nine, and the proceeds of that sale never passed through the hands of the four separate bank accounts he holds in three different banks—two here in Princeton and one in Trenton. There's been absolutely no activity in any of those accounts for the past three weeks."

"So he sold his house and had the money transferred to an account you can't trace him to or he's living off of cash," House interjected. "Sounds _innocent_ to me."

"To me, too," Molonitny said facetiously. "That's where we're at with him. When we got the call about Dr. Wilson, we talked with our captain about a plan we have to try to smoke Tritter out into the open. Because of the nature of the plan we had to act quickly and keep things on the Q.T., so as we're talking with you the plan has actually already been initiated. What we tell you has to be kept strictly between the four of us in this room. If so much as a whisper gets out, it will fail. There are other people involved but you don't need to know who they are or how they're connected."

"Is this the point where some maniacal super-criminal tries to cut my dick off with a laser?" House asks cynically. "Do I get an agent number and everything?"

"Greg," Nolan murmured only loud enough for the diagnostician to hear.

With a sigh, House decides to behave himself, but really—how big of a farce was this? His best friend was just shot and they wanted to play cloak and dagger?

"I know this all sounds a little over the top," Molonitny told the doctors with an exasperated sigh, "but this _entire case_ has been over the top. Do you realize that in the past four days there have been five attempts at murder, one actual homicide, five assaults, one abduction, a car trashed and a house blown to smithereens? I haven't seen that much chaos cross my desk in _six months_ in this town until I became acquainted with you and your associates, Dr. House. I must tell you that I enjoy my job and a little action from time to time too but I'm getting really tired and my wife isn't talking to me, so I'm _very_ motivated to see this case solved and handed over to the D.A.; then I'm taking stress leave to try to patch things up with the mother of my children and _my_ best friend. I'm assuming you would like to see things settle down as well. So can we, at least for the time being, cut the crap and smartass remarks and get down to work?"

House stared at the detective in astonishment. After a second or two the black humor of the past few days struck House and he couldn't help himself. He glanced sideways at Nolan, who also appeared stunned and then leaned sideways to say conspiratorially to him. "I think somebody has _big _issues!"

Nolan turned his head to look at his patient and was _not_ amused. House realized that he just might have stepped over the line and sat up, keeping his mouth shut. He looked attentively to Molonitny and nodded for the detective to continue.

Taking a deep breath and then releasing it slowly, the senior detective began again. "In law enforcement we know that perpetrators of violent crimes often like to observe the aftermath and reaction to their handiwork first hand. A profiler we've consulted from the New York office of the FBI has suggested that there is a very strong possibility that Tritter's make up makes him a candidate for such behaviors. Such offenders will show up somewhere in the gathering crowd of onlookers at a crime scene or at funerals of the people they've killed to watch the grieving. They get off on it. That's where the plan comes in.

"As soon as Dr. Wilson was in the ambulance officers I know personally and trust completely went to the hospital to meet him when he arrives. They have already made arrangements with key hospital staff, on a need-to-know basis, to help carry things out. We're trying to keep things as compartmentalized as possible to protect the secrecy. Dr. Wilson will be taken to the ER at PPTH where he will be stabilized as he normal would be. He will be taken to surgery to repair the damaged arm but that's where the normal ends. You see, according to our planned scenario, your friend will suffer a severe complication on the operating table and, I'm afraid to say, he won't survive."

House listened carefully and the more he heard the more he paid close attention. They were going to fake Wilson's death? How were they going to carry that out without somebody discovering the truth?

"His body will be taken to the morgue and there will be no autopsy because his surgeon will sign off on the cause of death," Molonitny continued, appearing to enjoy telling the story he helped cook up. His records will show that you have been named as his next of kin and executor of his estate, Dr. House, instead of a member of his family."

"Sure," House grumbled. "Make me the one his entire family hates."

The senior detective glared at the diagnostician briefly before continuing. "There will be a memorial service held and you will appear broken by this loss. You will need to do a little acting, Doctor, for this to be believable. Either Tritter will show up at the service and we catch him there or he'll see his chance to hit you while you are all alone in your grief, in which case we'll nab him there."

House shook his head, smirking in derision. "My acting won't make your little plan believable. Everyone knows that I run away from anything emotionally…intense," he told Molonitny. For that he received a look from Nolan but chose to ignore it. They could talk about his admission another time in one of their sessions. "If Wilson were killed I wouldn't show up at any damned public funeral. If I were even still alive…." His voice trailed off, just the thought of Wilson being dead nearly overwhelming him with a sense of hopelessness. "I'd be holed up somewhere, probably drunk and stoned stupid." He sighed silently, looking at the baseboard on the opposite side of the room. Both Molonitny and Hunt's eyebrows raised in response to what the diagnostician had said. Neither, however, asked him any more about that and he was extremely grateful.

"If this is the only thing you've got," House continued, "then do it right. Spread the rumor at the memorial that that's exactly what I'm doing. I'm holed up in my own apartment, wasted. That's the version of me Tritter will be expecting, anyway." He ventured a quick sideways glance at his therapist, seeing a hint of concern in his eyes. Yup, this was going to be the subject of at least two sessions.

"Uh, Detective," Dr Nolan spoke up questioningly. "What makes you so certain this Tritter individual will, in fact, show himself at the memorial or where Dr. House is living? You must be fairly confident to create a fairly complicated operation such as this."

_Good question,_ House thought to himself.

Molonitny looked extremely reluctant to answer but after a brief moment did so. "At the scene of the explosion of Dr. Cuddy's home eyewitnesses reported seeing someone describing Tritter's description standing towards the back. Last night we sent a Uniform to the homes of a few of these witnesses with a photo of Tritter. Each one identified him as the stranger they saw. He likely set the bomb, went into hiding and then returned on time to watch it go off."

"That's fine and well," House retorted, "but I'm not thrilled with the idea of being the bait in the rat-trap. When it comes to traps, this particular rat will know what kind of traps can be used and the way to get around them!"

"I assure you, Doctor," Molonitny said to him in a soothing tone of voice. "We really do know what we are doing from here. You will not be left alone to face Tritter—there will be a team of us watching out for you at your apartment as well as one at the memorial."

"If you knew what you were doing," the diagnostician groused, "then things wouldn't have got to this point. And what about Wilson? Does he know anything about this or are you going to ship him off to Princeton General under an assumed name that he knows nothing about and have him try to figure it out for himself?"

"Of course not," Hunt spoke up coldly, glaring. "If he is conscious in the ER one of our people will apprise him of the situation. If not, then that person will fill him in when he regains consciousness. At no point in time will he be left unattended. The question is—are you going to co-operate or not? The success of this depends upon your full participation. Tritter must be completely convinced this is legit and as you said he knows the moves so we have to keep ourselves one step ahead of him at all times."

House still wasn't prepared to agree to anything yet. These clowns had screwed up with the assigning of protection to his people and as a result each and every person in House's circle had been assaulted or killed. He wasn't a coward, or, at least he didn't think he was, but he wasn't an idiot, either. If he was going to take a risk like this he wanted to be damned certain that there wasn't a screw up.

"So are you telling me that the others—Cuddy, Thirteen, Chloe, Wilson's staff, his friends and family—none of this will have any clue that this is fake?" the diagnostician asked. "They'll all be led to believe that he is really dead?" He looked to Molonitny for the answer.

Molonitny nodded slowly, gravely. "Yes," he answered softly. "It has to be that way for this to succeed."

House just stared at the senior detective incredulously. There were no words that he could think of to describe how he felt just then. These jerks had no idea how much Wilson was loved by his co-workers, staff, friends and family and even his patients. All of those people would be hit hard—very hard—and he had a problem with doing such a thing to them. The diagnostician had a reputation for not giving a damn about anybody's feelings but his own, but in fact that couldn't be further from the truth. He simply hid and tried to deny such concern as best he could to protect himself from further pain and scrutiny. Vicodin had made it easier to do that.

"You have no idea how many people's feelings you're planning to fuck with," he told Molonitny, his voice dangerously low. "This isn't some fucking game! Those aren't faceless people to me. I can't, I can't do that to them." The diagnostician began to tremble. He felt sick to his stomach.

"Is there no other alternative?" Nolan asked as he placed a hand on House's shoulder and gave it a quick squeeze. "You are talking about traumatizing a large number of people some of whom will remain negatively affected by this even after they learn that James Wilson is still alive. It would be unconscionable to do this to them if there is any other alternative."

House rubbed his face in his hand, completely exhausted physically and emotionally. He wanted Tritter to be caught and the madness to end—but did it have to be like this?

"No," Molonitny sighed. "Not anything that we've been able to come up with. We still have no idea where Tritter is working from now that the apartment 'lair' has been discovered. It could be days before we track him down, if not longer, and in the meantime someone might end up dead. This is our opportunity. Heaven knows that the last thing Mitch and I wanted was to see Dr. Wilson injured, but this injury does offer us the best chance of nabbing him. We know the risk and pain that's involved, we haven't disregarded it. I assure you, I've lost enough family members and friends of my own and there's no way I would put anyone else through that pain if I didn't think it was absolutely necessary—"

The sound of someone outside crying out on pain and other voices crying out for someone to stop was immediately followed by the heavy sound of someone running up the front steps. A half-second later Sara came flying through the door-less entry, stopping short when she saw the four men seated in the living room of her home. She looked completely horrified, crying uncontrollably, her face wet with tears. House had looked up in surprise when she had entered and caught her gaze immediately.

Shit! He thought angrily. He hadn't expected her home yet. He hadn't managed to meet her at the curb and run interference. She had seen the half-dozen or so cops milling about outside and had panicked.

"What happened?" she screamed hysterically, "What happened now?"

For having a gimp leg House leapt off of the sofa amazingly fast and, forgetting his cane, hobbled quickly towards her but a cop in pursuit of her from outside reached her first, grabbing her. She began to scream and fight him.

"Let go of her!" the diagnostician yelled furiously.

"Let her go, Larsen!" Molonitny told the cop at nearly the same time.

Larsen released his grip on her and before House could grab her she bolted in the direction of the kitchen.

"Dr. Wilson!" she screamed, "Where are you?" Sara reached the entrance to the kitchen before House could stop her and stopped short at the sight of the blood. Fresh, blood-curdling screams left her throat. House got to her. His leg was doing some screaming of its own, as was his casted hand as he used the exposed fingers to grab one of her sleeves and his uninjured hand her other arm, turning her around. He forced her eyes to meet his, recognized that it was him and not another strange cop that had her before pulling her into him and holding her protectively against his body.

"Sara!" he said. "It's alright! It's alright! It's me, House!" He let her go just enough to cup her face with his left hand. "You're safe."

"That blo-blood! It that Dr. Wilson's?" the thirteen-year-old demanded, still crying so hard that her body was heaving violently in his arms.

The diagnostician didn't know what to say, but he was aware of the fact that she already knew the answer of her own question and was seeking confirmation. He wasn't going to lie to her, plan or no plan. "Yes," he admitted. "But he's okay! He went to the hospital and he's going to be fine."

Over his shoulder he heard Hunt curse softly but he didn't give a rat's ass about the secret. The girl in his arms had already gone through more trauma than one person should have to experience in a lifetime and he wasn't going to add to it.

"Are you sure?" Sara asked him, her eyes searching his face.

"I'm sure," House told her quietly. He felt a light tap on his shoulder and turned his head to see Nolan holding out a handkerchief to him. He took it with a nod of appreciation and then used it to dry her cheeks and chin. He could feel her begin to calm and relax. She wrapped her arms around his waist and held on for dear life, resting her head against his chest. The diagnostician felt awkward—he wasn't much of a comforter—he usually hid when the emotions were flowing. Still, the trust she appeared to have in him felt good, even if he didn't understand it.

"I thought they caught the person attacking everybody," she murmured.

House sighed. "There were two men in charge of it. They caught one, but the other one is still on the loose."

"So we're all still in danger?" Sara asked, her voice sounding so small and vulnerable. It was then that House came to the conclusion that no matter how despicable it seemed to put people through the kind of anguish the police were intending, Tritter had to be stopped before someone else was killed. He was certain that Tritter wouldn't stop until he had destroyed him completely.

"The police have a plan to catch him now that we know who he is," the diagnostician told her. "But it's a secret plan which you are now a part of since you know that Wilson is going to be okay. You can't tell _anyone_ about Wilson or about the plan—_no one_…not even your mom—until he's caught."

She pulled away slightly to look up at him. "I promise I won't as long as _Maman_ doesn't get hurt by not knowing."

He nodded and gave her a small smile. "Are you going to be okay now?"

Looking at the diagnostician carefully for a moment she asked, "Are you?"

"Yes," House said simply.

"I don't know," she admitted. "Please don't make me stay here tonight!"

"Not a chance," he assured her. "Why don't you come into the living room and we'll fill you in on what you need to know, then we'll head to the hospital."

He let go of her but she grabbed his good hand in hers, refusing to let go. She sat on one side of House on the sofa and Nolan took the other. Sara leaned towards House and he realized she still needed that sense of security. He smirked, wrapping his arm lightly around her. He glanced over to Nolan and shrugged one shoulder, receiving an approving nod and small smile in return.

Hunt still looked pissed that House had let Sara in on the fact that Wilson was in fact alright but the diagnostician ignored him. Molonitny directed himself to Sara and with a disarming smile, began to fill her in.

* * *

At some point on the ambulance ride between Chloe's house and PPTH James Wilson had passed out and when he awoke he found himself staring up into the nearly blinding lamps over the ER bay he found himself in. Hospital staffers worked efficiently around, over and with him. Instead of the standard clear plastic face guards worn over their faces the medical personnel wore opaque surgical masks and safety goggles instead. He didn't recognize anyone from the Emergency room staff that he knew, which was unusual because he knew a good number of them. Things seemed… _wonky _to him but he figured that was because he was in shock, what with his arm having a whole where tissue was supposed to be and excruciating pain run like a steady electric current down his arm into his hand and upwards into his shoulder, neck and back.

"Dr. Wilson," one of the masked faces with a female voice said to him, "Do you understand what I'm saying?"

He nodded, "Yes, I do," he said through the oxygen mask over his face. He had an IV feeding him whole blood to replace what he had lost and knew that he was stabilizing, thus a higher level of consciousness. He was glad it hadn't been deemed necessary to intubate him yet. For surgery on his arm they would have to.

"My name is Sergeant Gunderson. I'm with the Princeton P.D. I don't have any questions for you, but there is something I need to tell you before you are taken to surgery."

Wilson nodded, frowning in confusion. This was something he hadn't been expecting under the circumstances. What on earth could be so important that it couldn't wait until after surgery?

"Doctor," she continued. "In order to ensure your safety, after your surgery you will be transferred from Princeton-Plainsboro directly to Princeton General for your recovery. This is part of a police operation that involves the capture of the individual who shot you. I am not at liberty to tell you anything more at this time. I will be personally escorting you and will be able to explain everything in more detail later. When you are admitted to Princeton General it will be under an alias for your security. I will be there when you wake up to help you. Do you understand?"

The oncologist nodded uncertainly and then shook his head. "But why?" he asked.

"I'm afraid I can't answer that except to say it's necessary for your protection," Gunderson told him, shaking her head.

"But House—he'll be looking—" Wilson didn't get the opportunity to finish his statement before the cop stepped back and staffers began to push the gurney he was on out of the bay, heading, he presumed, to surgery. His mind was reeling. Did House know about this? Would he show up at the hospital like he said and not be able to find him? Why did he have to be transferred to another hospital following surgery—couldn't the police protect him at PPTH as well as they could at the General? Something was wrong, really wrong.

He was wheeled into Pre-Op, where he was greeted by a new team of nurses who took his vitals all over again and then transferred him to a sterile surgical stretcher. As always it was quite cool in Pre-Op. An older nurse came over, smiling comfortingly, draping a blanket fresh from the warmer and tucking it under his feet.

"That should feel better, Dr. Wilson," she told him with a smile and a gentle squeeze of his ankle as she passed him.

It did feel good—very good. It almost distracted him from the immediacy of the pain he felt. One of the trauma surgeons who would be operating arrived—it was Dr. Clanty, one of the fourth year surgical residents who had assisted him in the OR several times. The younger doctor smiled when he looked down at the oncologist.

"I've heard of a lot of ways people get out of going to work, Doctor, but this is ridiculous!"

Wilson smiled weakly but it turned out looking more like a grimace. "Bob, can you do me a favor? Look, Dr. House is going to be looking for me, but I'm being sent to—."

Before he could finish his sentence the Pre-Op nurse quickly stepped in and said something into Clanty's ear. He nodded, she went away and he looked at Wilson again.

"I'll take care of House," he assured the oncologist as he opened the snaps at the shoulder of the patient's gown to completely expose the shoulder and wounded upper arm, where he proceeded to draw notes and lines with a black Sharpee around the wound for later reference in the OR. He then moved to Wilson's left arm and did the same, only this time he only wrote in large block letters "NOT this arm". Wilson smiled. It seemed ridiculous to have to do that but it had quickly become standard procedure in many hospitals following a string of lawsuits filled around the country where patients had had the wrong limb operated on or even amputated by mistake. "We'll take good care of you, Wilson," Clanty assured him before leaving to go scrub up.

The Pre-Op nurse returned with a syringe. "Just a little sedative to prepare you for surgery," she told him before giving him the injection. "We'll be taking you in right away."

The oncologist watched her walk away. He couldn't help but obsess over what the cop had told him. It made no sense—there had to be more to it than simply his security. Both Thirteen and Chloe had undergone surgery and they remained at PPTH. Why was he the exception? Where was House anyway? What was taking him so long getting his ass to the hospital? Wilson really wanted to see his best friend before he went under anesthesia.

It wasn't long before Wilson felt the sedative kick in; it began to slow his mind down and relax him, putting his obsessing to a stop. Along with the warm blanket it was making him feel very sleepy. His eyes slid shut. He heard someone say his name and he opened his eyes. He was now under a set of even more brilliant lights before. It was the Operating theater; surgical staff were preparing the equipment, tools and supplies that would be needed for the operation. The anesthetist sat at his head and looked down at him, appearing upside down to the patient.

"Okay, Doctor," he said to Wilson. "You know the drill. When it's time, I'll put an oxygen mask over your face and inject the anesthetic into your IV line, at which point I'll ask you to count down from ten to one and if you make it to six I'll buy you a Cuban, just don't ask me from where!"

Wilson rolled his eyes in irritation. "I'm a goddamned oncologist," he said dopily. Who was stupid enough to offer a doctor who watched far too many of his patients die in ugly ways from lung cancer a cigar?

The anesthetist didn't appear to have heard him. He was already starting the line. Wilson looked up towards the observation gallery overhead but House wasn't there yet. That was a surprise to him and even though he hadn't specifically asked House to attend, he had kind of expected that he would.

The attending surgeon, Polk, and Clanty had arrived. Polk looked down at Wilson and smiled behind his mask and shield. "Damn it, James! How many times have I told you, when you go hunting, take someone along who will show you how _not_ to shoot yourself!"

"Just don't screw up, Nelson, or I'll come back to haunt the shit out of you," Wilson responded weakly.

Polk looked to the anesthetist and nodded.

Wilson watched as the oxygen mask was placed on his face. He quickly glanced up at the gallery again. At first he saw nothing and then the Chief of Diagnostic Medicine stepped up to the glass and caught the oncologist's eye and nodded.

_It's about time, Gimp!_ Wilson thought. He watched out of the corner of his eye as the anesthetist injected something into the line in his arm.

"Time to count," The oncologist heard.

"Ten, nine, eight…seven…."


	32. Chapter 32

**Reconciliations: A House M.D. Story**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its concept, current story line and characters past and current are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

A/N: Here's the update. Hope you like it! Please don't forget to review!

Songs that helped inspire this chapter include: "When I Go Down" by Reliant K and "Beside You" by Marianas Trench.

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Two**

The nurse wasn't pushing the chair fast enough! Lisa Cuddy had just received news from her personal assistant that Wilson had been brought in about an hour and a half earlier with a gunshot wound and had been rushed to emergency surgery. The assistant wasn't certain how serious the wounding was and after trying to find out for herself she received no definitive answer from the Emergency Room. All that they had written down was that he had lost a little over three pints of blood and was brought in shocky and unstable. He was stabilized and taken to surgery. A little while later the assistant returned to the Dean of Medicine's room to tell her that there was some trouble in surgery, that there was some uncontrolled bleeding and that it didn't look good. Frustrated and terrified for her friend's life, Cuddy had ordered a nurse to wheel her to the observation gallery to find out for herself what was wrong. She was surprised that House hadn't notified her of what had happened to his best friend but she also realized that he could have been too shaken to think of anything but being at Wilson's side.

Frustrated with how slow she was being pushed, Cuddy ordered the nurse away rather abruptly and wheeled herself as fast as she could to the elevator. She looked around surreptitiously for anyone watching. Seeing no one she climbed out of the wheel chair. She was a little dizzy at first but that quickly passed and she felt alright. Technically the Dean of Medicine's concussion meant that she wasn't supposed to be out of bed yet, but she didn't care. She had to find out if her friend was alright and wheeling it to the Emergency OR was just not cutting it; she could crawl on her hands and knees faster.

She entered an empty elevator car which within a minute deposited her on the right level where she made her way quickly towards the gallery overlooking Emergency OR two, one hand skimming the corridor walls all the way just in case a wave of dizziness or lightheadedness swept over her. Once there she opened the door and stepped inside. As Cuddy had suspected, Gregory House stood next to the large window, both hands pressed flat against the glass. What she hadn't expected was the tear tracing its way down his cheek or the far away, glassy appearance of his eyes. He was motionless, every muscle in his body was tensed up.

Her heart dropped into her stomach; something very, very bad had just happened and she was afraid to find out what it was. House hadn't so much as flinched when she entered the gallery and she wondered if he was even aware that she was there. The Dean of Medicine approached the glass, and the diagnostician. He seemed oblivious to her. It was then that she noticed that his eyes were squeezed tightly shut. She slowly looked down at the operating table below. The sight made her sick to her stomach and she had to turn away, covering her mouth with both hands, swallowing hard so that she didn't throw-up right then and there. Tears filled her eyes and she knew the moment she opened them they would wash down her face uncontrollably. Shock alone kept her from keeling over with heaving sobs.

All around the operating table on the floor, on the table, on the patient was blood…blood that could only have been spilt but some kind of massive hemorrhaging. Surgical sponges, soaked in it were strewn around. It was on the gowns worn by the OR crew working around the table. On the table a body lay under a sheet pulled over its face, blood soaking through. Surgery was over because there was no point—the patient was dead. She kept thinking of him in terms of 'the patient' because Cuddy couldn't bring herself to admit that the dead man below was Wilson.

Forcing herself to open her eyes again she turned to look at House rather than the gore. He remained as motionless as a mountain, eyes closed, face hard, frozen into a stark stoicism. His hands were now clenched into white-knuckled fists; the diagnostician's entire body trembled terribly but not one word, not one sigh or moan came from him. Seeing him like that terrified her. She had never seen him like that before, ever.

"House," Cuddy said, her voice not much more than a whisper. "House, what happened? How could this have happened?"

The Chief of Diagnostic Medicine didn't move, didn't even seem to be breathing. She tentatively reached out to touch him, hesitated a moment and then proceeded again, placing a feather light touch on his upper arm. He flinched violently but didn't look at her. She lowered her head to look under his extended arm and saw that his face was all screwed up into a grimace of absolute grief, but still he made no sound.

The Dean of Medicine couldn't hold back the sobbing any longer. She had no doubt in her mind that the man before her was having a breakdown, was withdrawing into himself so deeply that she wondered if he would ever reemerge again. In the midst of her own grief she found herself also grieving for him. She knew that House and Wilson had shared a bond she had never seen before between friends and she wondered if a part of the man in front of her hadn't just died with the man below.

Cuddy touched his arm again, a little heavier now. He didn't flinch this time, likely because she had startled him the first time but now that he knew she was there; he had returned to his absolute stoniness. "Greg," she said softly, resorting to using his first name, "please look at me. Please!"

After what seemed to be an eternity the diagnostician began to move ever so slightly. His eyes opened and he gradually raised his head. Finally he brought his arms down to his sides. He remained like that for at least a minute or two before turning to face her—but he refused to meet her gaze. What were usually two of the most beautiful and brilliant blue eyes were now dull despite being filled with tears; they were like the glass eyes taxidermists used to replace the perishable real ones of whatever animal was being stuffed.

Needing to be comforted herself she moved to him and wrapped her arms around his waist, hugging him as if her life depended upon it. Cuddy buried her face in his chest and began to really cry. He didn't push her away, didn't back away or protest; House simply stood like a statue. He didn't wrap his arms around her, returning the hug. He was a statue of stone. After her tears began to subside she looked up at him.

"Please tell me that you're going to be alright!" she demanded softly. She reached up with her right hand and gently wiped the tears off of his cheeks. He blinked rapidly for a moment and then his eyes finally met hers.

"I can't do this, Cuddy," he whispered. "I can't be your rock. I…I'm sorry."

"You don't have to be my rock, Greg," she told him. "Just promise me that you're going to be okay."

His eyebrows met and his forehead creased into a frown. Shaking his head almost imperceptibly he gently pushed her away from him. "I can't," he replied and then brushed past her on his way out.

The Dean of Medicine followed him, having difficulty keeping up with him despite his limp; she felt dizzy and weak and that slowed her down considerably.

"Then let me be a rock for _you_," she told him. "I can…I loved Wilson too but my relationship with him was nowhere as close as yours was. Talk to me, please!"

Continuing forward, House didn't respond at all to what she said. She began to run to pass him so she could try to stand in his way to stop him. Standing there she thought for a moment the man was going to walk right over her but at the last moment he stopped, looked down at her and sighed in irritation.

"Move." The diagnostician said, his voice quiet but edged with steel.

Cuddy shook her head stubbornly, now placing a hand on his chest as if that alone would stop him in place. "I'm scared for you, don't you understand that? I don't think you should be alone right now."

In his eyes was something that was speaking to her but she wasn't certain what it was he was saying. It was like a plea, a plea to just let him go, possibly. Cuddy was afraid to do that, afraid of what might become of him if she did. Yes, he had made advances since Mayfield and yes he had grown so much, but it had only been a few months since he came into her office delusional, and upon realizing that he had completely lost touch with reality had begun to shut down in ways very much like he was right now.

"Please move," House repeated almost pleadingly. "I can't do this. Please just let me be." With that he gently but forcefully pushed her aside. Just that little bit was enough to send her head spinning and the next thing she knew she was on the floor.

Once Cuddy's vision cleared she could see the diagnostician turn back to her and then help her back to her feet. Spotting on orderly nearby he called him over.

"I'm her doctor," House told him, tugging at his ID badge clipped to the hem of his shirt. "Dr. Cuddy has a severe concussion and is very disoriented," House told him, refusing to look at her. "She shouldn't be out of bed. Take her back to her room before she hurts herself." He literally handed her over to the orderly and then limped quickly away. When the Dean of Medicine tried to follow him again the orderly held her in place.

"It's going to be okay, Dr. Cuddy," her employee told her respectfully. "I have to take you back to your room now."

"No," she protested, trying to get away from him, watching as House rounded the corner and was no longer in sight, "no, I have to go--."

"I'm sorry, Ma'am," the orderly said with a shake of his head. "Doctor's orders. Come, I'll make certain you get to your room safely."

The Dean of Medicine could have ordered him to let her go, should have done so, but didn't. Her head was spinning and what House had said wasn't too off the truth; she was too tired and weak to fight him. Once she was back in her bed, the full impact of what had happened hit her again like a ton of bricks. Wilson was dead, murdered by that madman Tritter. She broke into tears again, burying her face in her pillow so that none of her staff could hear her cry. Her heart was still reeling with grief and guilt because of Lucas; she had just lost one of her 'Boys' and she was terrified of losing the other as well.

* * *

"I'm sure that Dr. Wilson will be okay, _Amoureux_," Chloe LaSalle told her daughter in what was little more than a raspy whisper.1

Once her oxygen saturation numbers were high enough and stable enough the breathing tube had been removed, replaced by a nasal cannula feeding her oxygen through her nose instead. The Chaplain was feeling tired and the pain was enough to warrant strong painkillers but she was leagues better now than she had been the day before. The swelling of her throat, irritated from the tube, had nonetheless gone down enough for her to be able to make sound, albeit it was a very soft sound. She didn't mind—it was just so good to be alive and with her daughter and able to communicate; she was reminded of how much she had taken those three things for granted until she'd lost them. That was how it was with many aspects of life: one really didn't understand how good something was until it was gone.

God had been merciful, allowing her to be alive to continue being Sara's mother. The thirteen-year-old lay on the bed with her mother, cuddling as much as she could without causing Chloe pain or interfering with the air tube and IV lines. Sara had filled her in on what had been happening in the world outside of Chloe's, including the most recent victims of attack—Cuddy and Wilson. Cuddy was going to recover and be fine, but it was unknown how Wilson was going to fair; Sara only knew that the man was currently in surgery to repair the damage done to his arm by the bullet. She saw the concern in her daughter's body language, face and eyes. It had been so good of the oncologist to take care of Sara like he had; an obvious bond had started forming between the two of them.

"I hope so, _Maman_," the girl said wistfully. There was something strange about the way she said it but Chloe couldn't figure out exactly what. "Do you think we could pray for Dr. Wilson?"

Chloe smiled, kissing the top of Sara's head. "Of course we can. We can pray for the other people who've been hurt as well. Sit up and turn around to face me." The girl did as she was told. "Okay," the woman continued. "Take my hand. Why don't you begin and I'll finish, hmm?"

Bowing their heads, Sara began almost timidly, her voice soft and reverent. "Dear Lord, I love you. Thank you for loving us, taking care of us and our needs. Please remember the people who've been hurt by the evil men who attacked them. Please help _Maman_ heal completely without any problems. Thank you that Dr. Hadley is okay and so is Dr. Cuddy and her baby. Help her to feel better soon. Thank you that Dr. House is feeling better. Lord, Dr. Wilson is a good person. I know that you love him just like you do everybody else. He's been hurt really badly and I'm worried about him. Please take care of him as he is being operated on and heal him quickly so he can go back to work helping his patients…."

"You're too late," House said from the door as he entered the room. Sara looked up at him solemnly and Chloe caught the way her daughter and House's gazes met, almost as if there was some form of communication happening. "If there is a God, he doesn't care about what happens to us down here."

The chaplain looked at him immediately with concern. The doctor looked haggard and exhausted as if he hadn't really slept in weeks. His angular face was drawn, and the corners of his mouth dipped down deeply. His eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed, his nose and upper lip were red as well. His entire body bespoke of a grief that went beyond the emotional—House's body itself seemed to be crushed by the weight of something horrible. The only thing that didn't seem to correspond was the brightness of his eyes. They looked lucid and clear. Looking at him made Chloe's heart bleed. She knew that the news he brought had devastated him, which could only mean one thing.

"Sara," Chloe whispered into her ear, "Can you please go out of the room for a little while so that I can speak with Dr. House in private?"

With a nod, the thirteen-year-old carefully got off of the bed without jolting it and thus hurting her mother. As she walked up to the diagnostician their eyes met again before the girl left the room and slid the door shut. Chloe watched her walk away.

"Come to me," she rasped to House, gesturing with her hands for him to come closer. Almost reluctantly he did, very slowly. He sat down in the chair next to the bed rather than sitting on the edge of the bed where she could hold him; he obviously needed his distance and despite her disappointment Chloe respected that. Now that he was closer to her she could see that he had been crying not too long before.

"Greg, Sara told me about James. Is he alright?"

He stared at her and again she noticed that his eyes and the rest of him didn't seem to jive. It took him a few moments before he spoke. His words were emotionless. "He's…dead," he told her.

Though his answer was what she had concluded by the way he looked, just hearing the words coming out of his mouth shocked her. One of her hands covered her mouth and her eyes teared up very quickly. While she felt incredibly sad about what had happened to the oncologist, her tears were more for the grief she saw in House than for Wilson.

"Oh Greg," she said, shaking her head. "I'm…I'm so sorry! Please come closer!"

House appeared to want to but was able to do so. He just shook his head and looked down at his lifeless hands in his lap. He was withdrawing, shutting down instead of facing the truth, accepting the comfort of others and allowing himself to grieve. The way he looked now was much more lost and desperate than even a few days ago when he'd been thinking about suicide, if that was possible. It struck fear in her heart.

"Talk to me," Chloe begged him. "Tell me what you're thinking!"

He shook his head, looking up at her. "I can't. I can't tell you what I want to. I'm sorry." He rose to leave, grabbing his cane.

"Yes you _can_," the Chaplain told him. "You don't have to be sorry! Please don't leave like this. I love you."

"I'm sorry, Chloe," House murmured, avoiding her gaze. "Because of me Wilson is dead. Because of me you're in that hospital bed right now."

"But it wasn't you!" she insisted, desperately trying to find a way to get that through to him. "That's what I have to tell you…Sara said you know that Lucas was involved but it wasn't only him—it was a maniac named Michael…," she paused, searching her brain for the name, "…Tritter! He said you know him! He's seeking revenge. It's his sin, not yours. You are simply a victim like the rest of us. He planned on hurting us to destroy your spirit, to break your heart before hunting you down and killing you! Don't let him destroy you. Tell the police--!"

"They already know about Tritter," House told her bitterly, "but they can't find him. They've bungled the whole thing and now Wilson is…gone. But it all boils down to me. I'm the one who messed with Tritter and earned his hate. The rest of you would be fine if I had just stopped acting like a jackass for five minutes…it doesn't matter anymore. Let Tritter find me and do whatever it is he plans on doing to me. Then it's over. He goes away and the rest of you who are left will be fine."

Chloe was shaking her head emphatically, "No! Don't talk like that, please! I will not be fine if you are hurt. I'll…I'll fall apart! I…I…Oh English! What a stupid, impossible language!" She switched to her mother tongue. "_Si tu meurs, ça me brisera la couer. Il m'a fallu de temps pour arriver à faire confiance à un autre homme, après Joseph. Mais c'est Dieu qui t'a amené à moi! J'ai tout de suite su qeu je pouvais te faire confiance, que, comme Dieu me l'a murmuré a l'oreille, tu étais un miracle, un cadeau du ciel. Ne m'enlève pas ça!_" *

House looked at her and in his eyes she saw frustration and guilt. "I'm not a gift, Chloe," he told her. "I'm a hazzard." With that he left, not looking back, his broad shoulders sagging despondently. Chloe began to cry softly, and was praying under her breath when Sara returned. Try as she might, the mother couldn't stop crying, couldn't speak. Her daughter climbed onto the bed and snuggled up to her mother again, stroking Chloe's hair in silent comfort.

He was in grave danger and the Chaplain didn't know what she could do to help. She screamed inwardly at her sense of helplessness.

* * *

It was like walking into the twilight zone as Thirteen entered the main lobby of PPTH and saw long faces everywhere she went. Doctors, nurses, even some of the patients she saw looked like a tragedy had occurred that she wasn't aware of. Some people had red eyes from crying, some were currently crying, others were solemn and quiet as they served the public with stoic efficiency. The air itself felt heavy with a fog of grief. The normal cacophony of noises like voices, footfall, carts squeaking and rumbling along their way, pages made over the P.A. system, and babies crying, was now replaced by soft voices and whispers and slow, light footsteps. The odd baby still cried, a few of the carts still squeaked and messages over the P.A. still sounded (although even those seemed much more subdued somehow) but the volume level was easily half that it usually was.

Shaking her head, puzzled, she approached a nursing station. "Who died?" she asked jokingly of the charge nurse on duty, April. Three pairs of eyes turned to look at her as if she'd just cursed a blue streak in front of them. A shiver ran down Thirteen's spine. "What's going on?" she asked more soberly. It occurred to her that perhaps another staff member had been targeted by the madmen, one of whom had attacked her.

"You haven't heard, Dr. Hadley?" April asked her quietly.

"I was discharged yesterday morning," Thirteen answered, shrugging. "I haven't heard anything since then." She was beginning to worry and just wanted to be answered.

The nurses exchanged looks, annoying the young doctor. "What?" Thirteen demanded again.

April leaned over the desk to talk to her almost conspiratorially. "Yesterday Chloe LaSalle—that new chaplain?—was found. She was trying to escape her captors and was shot. She came in to the ER and underwent surgery but now she's recovering well, at least the last time I heard. Dr. Cuddy was brought in after her with a bad concussion—someone _blew her house up!_—but both she and her baby are going to be okay. Then today…." The charge nurses voice trailed off as her eyes teared up a little. She cleared her throat and continued, "This morning Dr. Wilson was brought in with a gunshot wound. I was told that it wasn't even a serious injury but in surgery…there were complications…apparently his clotting factors were out of whack and he hemorrhaged and they couldn't stop it." She took a breath before finishing. "He died on the table about an hour ago."

Thirteen stared at April, shocked, unable to move or speak. She tried to wrap her mind around what she had just been told but couldn't. She was glad to hear that LaSalle and Cuddy were alright but the Dean of Medicine's house was blown up? Wilson was shot and died? It seemed so unbelievable, like the plot of a B-grade movie and yet she didn't suspect the nurse of lying to her. The doctor found a lump form in her throat and an almost hysterical tension was building in her, threatening to come out in the form of panic. She began to take slow, deep breaths to ward off the possibility of hyperventilation.

Tears moistened her eyes but she forced them back; she wasn't much of a crier and hated to be seen crying by others. She hadn't known Wilson as well as many of the staff who had been working at PPTH much longer than she had, but still couldn't help but feel incredibly sad. House had frequently called on the oncologist to join the team at the differentials whenever cancer, especially rare forms, was a distinct possibility. She had worked with him several times and he had always been friendly, kind and professional; she had liked him, and not just because he was able to keep her boss reigned in better than anyone else. Her boss…she wondered if House knew about all of these events and if so, how he was taking the news. She had noticed remarkable and admiral changes in the Chief of Diagnostic Medicine since his release from detox and Recovery hospitalization but she also knew a thing or two about the fragility of addicts and their sobriety, particularly as early in the recovery process as House was.

Could he handle the death of his best friend or would he crumble, relapse and self-destruct in his grief? If the latter occurred, who was going to be there for him to save him from himself? That had been Wilson's roll in their odd friendship. After the oncologist Dr. Cuddy was the next person who knew him the best, but with her being injured herself she probably wouldn't be much of a help to him; the young doctor wondered if the Dean of Medicine would help him even if she wasn't injured. She didn't know the dynamics between House and Cuddy at all well, but it was obvious that a tension, a cooling in their friendship had taken place since he returned to PPTH. She knew that House was back at Mayfield for treatment of depression so as long as he was there he was safe if the hospital even allowed him to receive word of Wilson's death right away.

At least the subdued atmosphere in the hospital now made sense to her; James Wilson was very popular with most of the hospital staff because of his professionalism and his friendly nature. Thirteen had heard the rumors about his womanizing ways among the nursing staff at PPTH, but even most of his ex-girlfriends still liked him and were on friendly terms with him. Of course there were a handful of people at the hospital who were not fans of the oncologist, but that was true of anyone and everyone, it was just a part of life—a person simply can't please or be liked by everyone. In Thirteen's limited experience with the man, however, his detractors were but a small minority of those who knew him. He would be greatly missed.

Thirteen had come to the hospital that afternoon to check on Eric Foreman; he was still in a coma as of yesterday which was not encouraging as far as his recovery went. Seeing him lying in the ICU like that had reminded her of just how much she still cared for him. She still intended to visit him, but now she wanted to find out more about what was going on from someone closer to the source. She inquired on which room Cuddy was assigned and then headed in that direction.

At the elevator she pressed the call button and watched the numbers above the doors count down as the car descended. When it reached the lobby and the doors opened she took a step forward without looking and nearly walked smack dab into House. She looked at him in surprise. Hadn't she heard that he was back at the psychiatric hospital? Yet there he was standing in front of her, leather jacket on, back-pack slung over a shoulder tucked under his right arm, which was otherwise useless due to the cast on his hand. She was confused about what was going on but that was how she had been since Chase died so she was getting used to it.

After a brief flash of recognition in the diagnostician's eyes they turned dull and empty. His face was long and subtly sad and his shoulders sagged. He already knew about Wilson. House was the personification of pathos. He moved to go around her but she gently grabbed his arm and pulled him inside with her. The elevator closed shut and began to ascend when Thirteen punched the stop button. The car came to a stop and the faint sound of an alarm could be heard but she didn't care. Looking at him frightened her. They were not close, and House was a difficult man to tolerate when he was at his best but somewhere in her she respected him and cared about him. His fight to turn his life around took a courage she hadn't thought he had.

"What are you doing?" the older doctor demanded in irritation. There was no energy behind his words.

"I heard about Wilson," she said to him quietly, hooking a stray strand of her long brown hair behind her ear. "I…I can't believe it!"

House looked at the floor, at the wall behind her, at the ceiling of the elevator car, everywhere but at her. "It's true. He's dead. Now get this damned thing moving again."

By the way he was acting so completely defeated Thirteen had no doubt that he shouldn't be left alone. "No," she told him. "Not until I'm certain that you're going to be okay."

His eyes narrowed suspiciously and he looked her in the eye briefly. He bitterly smirked.

"Don't worry," House told her cynically, "If you play your cards right I'm sure Cuddy will keep you on here no matter who she gets to replace me." He attempted to reach around her to access the control panel but she smacked his hand hard. The diagnostician pulled his hand back in surprise.

"Ow!" he snapped, glaring at her angrily and in his eyes there was the spark that Thirteen was accustomed to seeing. There was still some fight left in him yet.

"I'm not finished!" she told him.

"_I am_!" He nearly shouted, the spark in his eyes becoming a flame. _Good_, Thirteen thought to herself, _let's see if I can stoke it to a blazing fire_!

"I don't want to work for your replacement!" the younger doctor told him sharply. "I came back to your team to work for _you_. I can't imagine what you're going through right now but you can't just run away, curl up into a little ball and self-destruct! We're the only two left standing in this and it's up to us to stop this insanity because the police don't seem to be able to do it! Consider it seeking vengeance on Wilson's behalf, and Taub's—and Eric's, too! He may never wake up from what was done to him!"

"There's nothing we can do," House told her, appearing to be forcing himself to remain calm, but it was a battle he seemed to be losing. "We're doctors. Stopping the killing is the specialization of law enforcement!"

Thirteen couldn't believe the words she heard coming out of her boss' mouth. They were so contrary to who the man was that it was hysterically funny.

"Who _are_ you and what did you do with Gregory House?" she demanded, half-laughing mirthlessly. "Since when have you ever trusted someone else to take care of a situation that involves you? Even when you're the patient you have to be in control, by hook or by crook! I know that you have no faith in the police to solve anything and you have never bowed out of a fight. You've changed your tactics, sometimes you've retreated to re-gather resources, you've gone from overt to covert and you're always scheming but you don't quit! You don't concede and you don't surrender!"

House stared at her, and in his eyes shecould see that scheming, processing, calculating mind at work. "I'm no longer that man," he told her, shaking his head. "That man was fueled by insanity…I left him behind. Now move!" Forcefully but being careful not to use excessive force and hurt her the diagnostician pushed her aside and hit the start button. He pushed down right away. He had to wait until the elevator jerked upwards a floor once again, the doors open to find that no one was waiting any longer and then descended again before he could escape the elevator and her.

Thirteen took advantage of the last few seconds she had of his undivided attention. She hated using the tactic she was about to use but she was out of time and had no other choice but to pull out the big guns.

"What kind of friend are you?" she asked him in disgust. "Your best friend is murdered in cold blood and you're just going to walk away with your tail between your legs and do nothing? If you were the one in the morgue right now, Wilson wouldn't sit by and do nothing. Didn't he mean anything at all to you? Are you truly that big of a coward?"

The elevator doors opened. House glared down at her, and his eyes were a conflicted miasma of emotions. "He was _everything_ to me!" he hissed. "And yes, I _am_ a coward. That's all I've _ever _been."

He turned and limped off of the elevator into the lobby in his crippled version of a dramatic exit, but Thirteen was a stubborn woman and she wasn't about to be shut down that easily. The elevator doors began to close; she blocked them with her arm and they opened again. She charged after the diagnostician and easily closed the gap before he reached the main doors.

"Fine," Thirteen said determinedly, matching his pace and earning a frustrated groan from him. "But in respect for his memory and how much you meant to him—and only heaven knows why!—I'm not going to let you leave here alone and allow you to destroy yourself, so from here on wherever you are, I am." She followed House out of the hospital. "Wherever you go, I go. I'm not so much as going to allow you to take a piss without me in the room and don't think you can use your size or threats to stop me! Bigger, scarier men than you have tried to intimidate me and failed!"

House stopped short, and stared straight up at the sky, a low growl emerging from his throat and his one hand forming a fist while the other gripped his cane with white knuckles. Suddenly he turned on her, enraged. "What the hell do you want from me?" he screamed, earning looks of surprise and disdain from passersby. He didn't seem to notice and Thirteen didn't care. "What do you expect me to do? How am I going to track down Wilson's killer and stop him from striking again when I can't even go from point A to point B without this goddamned cane?" He waved it in the air for emphasis. "Don't you get it? I'm a gimp, a cripple both physically and emotionally! I'm not half the man Wilson was—I never deserved his friendship in the first place! I should have been the one who was shot, not him and I'll never be able to live with myself knowing that he died because of me! First the love of his life dies because of me and now him! You want to seek vengeance then go seek vengeance but leave me the hell alone!" His voice dropped to barely a whisper and his eyes were wet. He implored of her, "I can't deal with this, Thirteen. Please…just leave me alone."

Thirteen looked up at him and saw the surrender in his eyes, could feel how badly he just wanted to be alone and in his own way die with his friend. He was broken.

Swallowing hard, Thirteen straightened her stance and set her jaw. "I can't, House. I don't know why I don't just turn around and walk away and leave you to your own devices. God knows you wouldn't return the favor if our roles were reversed…by I can't leave you alone because I'm pretty sure if I do you'll be the next resident of the morgue by tomorrow morning and I wouldn't be able to look in the mirror if I knew I could have prevented it but didn't. I'm a huge sucker for punishment, I know…but I'm not ditching, so suck it up and live with it."

House looked at her with mixed emotions once again and then scowled.

"You're one stubborn bitch!" he told her coldly.

Thirteen smiled in amusement. "And you're one stubborn bastard! That should make things fun. Look on the bright side, House. In twenty years I'll be dead. You can do whatever the hell you want once I croak."

The diagnostician stared at her for a long moment before shaking his head and walking resignedly towards his parking space with Thirteen flanking him the entire way. They approached his bike. He slid his cane into its holder and then climbed on.

"Hope you enjoy walking," he told her with a sneer as he slid his helmet on and did up the strap.

"No need," she told him and before he could react she was sitting behind him on the bike, wrapping her arms around his waist. "Plenty of room back here."

"Has anyone told you that you're a giant pain in the ass?" House snapped angrily. "Get off my bike!"

"You first!" Thirteen threw back at him. "You can be as angry and cantankerous as you want but you're not going to shake me. You're stuck with me!"

"Like with a leech," he retorted nastily, "only not as intelligent!" He started the bike up and revved the engine. When he realized that she had meant it he took his helmet off and passed it back to her. "Put this on because when I shake you off the bike you're going to need it!"

"If I go you're coming with me," the younger doctor told him stubbornly. She knew that House might be suicidal but he would never intentionally take another person's life. He was a healer, even if he only did it for the puzzles. Thirteen hesitated and then tried to hand the helmet back to him but he wouldn't even acknowledge her. Giving in, she put the helmet on and tightened the strap as far as it would go. It was a little large on her but not terribly so.

House backed the bike out and then kicked it into gear, riding them out of the parking lot before hitting the throttle and picking up speed. He drove skillfully and _fast_. This wasn't the first time Thirteen had been on a motorcycle, but it was certainly the most reckless ride she'd ever had. For a fleeting moment she wondered if House had been serious about trying to shake her off the back of the bike but knew better; he drove the bike like she'd seen him live the rest of his life—without regard for safety or the future, challenging death to come and get him, take himself to the gates of hell before yanking himself away just as Hades tried to grab him with his bony claws. He was always flirting with self-destruction and she wondered if someday he would give himself to it completely.

At one point he turned into the parking lot of a strip mall and parked out front a liquor store, turning the engine off.

"My stop," he told her. She slipped off tentatively in case this was a trick and she had to leap back on as he tried to drive away without her. He dismounted and took his cane from the holder. "What's your poison?" he demanded.

Thirteen removed the helmet and tucked it under her arm like she'd been doing it for years. "I'll decide if I want anything once we're inside," she told him and then tried to snatch the bike key out of House's hand but he pulled it away at the exact right moment. The younger doctor pulled her arm back only to watch it jerk unexpectedly. She tried to pull the arm back to her side as casually as possible, pretending nothing had happened and hoping that her boss hadn't noticed. Of course he had—House never missed a thing. He looked at her with eyebrows meeting on his forehead.

"How long have the myoclonic jerks been that intense?" he asked her, automatically shifting into doctor mode.

She knew there was no point in lying to him. "Since I returned from my vacation in Thailand, but it doesn't happen often at all—this is only the fourth time in a month it's been anything as pronounced as that. Occasionally I get tremors in my left hand, quite mild, almost imperceptible. Look, I have Huntington's…it was only a matter of time, right? Don't worry House."

He looked up at her stoically and shrugged. "Why would I?" The diagnostician turned away from her and limped into the store. Thirteen sighed and shook her head, following him inside. Immediately House went to the cashier behind a high density plastic protection barrier and requested the bathroom key; the cashier reached under the counter and pulled out the key, slipping it through the small slot at the base of the barrier to him. House snatched it up and headed towards the back of the store, winding through the maze-like shelves of liquor and wine bottles. She followed closely behind him just in case he tried to make a break out of a back door or something. He was predictably unpredictable, she knew. They reached the single unisex bathroom. He unlocked the door and opened it.

"Hold it," Thirteen told him and brushed past him to poke her head inside to take a look for any windows or doors her boss could use to escape through. There was only one little window just below the ceiling level for ventilation; even if it had been big enough for House to escape through—which it wasn't—he wouldn't be able to get to it, especially with his bad leg.

"Does it pass inspection, Warden?" he sniped as she stepped out and he stepped into the bathroom.

"I'll be right here when you get out," she told him with a smirk.

"I haven't had to have help using the potty since I was two," House told her sarcastically as he shut the door, "but suit yourself."

Thirteen sighed and leaned against the bare wall opposite the bathroom tiredly. _What the hell am I doing?_ She asked herself with a shake of her head. _Why do I even care what he does to himself?_ _Because deep down you like the jerk, Remy, that's why._

* * *

Inside the bathroom House sighed, shaking his head. Of all times in her association with him why did she have to pick now to care? While it was touching in an annoying kind of way, the last thing he needed was a cling-on. He went to the sink and turned on the tap, letting cold water flow into the sink, and then went to the side of the small room furthest from the door and pulled out his cell phone. Two bars…not great reception but he should be able to make the call. He dialed a number and waiting one ring before it was answered.

"Nolan. What's going on, Greg? Are you at your apartment yet?"

"I've encountered a bit of a problem," the diagnostician told him, glaring at the door, knowing that just beyond it was the problem he spoke of. "I've contracted a parasite that I just can't get rid of."

"I beg your pardon?" the psychiatrist asked, confused, probably wondering if he had heard correctly.

Sighing, House clarified, "I ran into Thirteen on my way out of the hospital. I played my part but I think I was too convincing because now she has made it her personal mission to make sure that I don't self-destruct in the depths of my grief. She literally is watching my every move—I can't shake her. How is everything supposed to go as planned if I have a chaperone? I can pretend to be desperately depressed but it's hard to fake drunk and stoned if I don't even have the smell of alcohol on my breath."

"That _is_ a problem," Nolan acknowledged. "Could you not sprinkle something on your person for the scent?"

"If it's not on my breath when I talk to her, she'll know it's all a hoax," the diagnostician answered resignedly. "My apartment isn't big enough to avoid being close enough for her to tell. Eventually she'll be in my face about something. Look, I have an idea, but I need your promise you're not going to reel me back in for doing it."

"If you plan involves you actually drinking, Greg, I can't agree to it and strongly urge you not to go ahead with it."

"I knew you'd say that," House told him, rolling his eyes. "Look, I won't actually swallow any. All I'll do it swish it around in my mouth every so often and then spit it out again."

"Greg," Nolan countered, "You're problem isn't only with opiates. You're also an alcoholic. How can I be certain that you'll be able to resist the temptation to swallow once it's in your mouth and you've tasted it?"

House exhaled loudly. "I guess you'll just have to trust me."

"Can you trust yourself?" his therapist asked him simply. The diagnostician knew that Nolan was right, that it would be incredibly difficult to keep from actually drinking it but he also knew that they had gone too far just to give up now.

"I have to," he answered with finality. "Now, everything is set with Sara, right?"

"Yes," the psychiatrist answered.

House nodded to himself. "And she's going to suggest to Chloe that she speak with you, right?"

"Yes," Nolan said again.

The diagnostician sighed in relief. "I just about confessed the whole thing to her earlier. It was killing me to watch her reactions to my act. When I left her she looked absolutely terrified for me. I felt so sick doing that to her…I just about threw up."

"It will be alright, Greg," Nolan assured him compassionately. "It's only temporary. She'll be alright."

House closed his eyes. His heart ached. Pounding on the bathroom door caught his attention. His eyes flashed open.

"House?" Thirteen's muffled voice called from the other side of the door. "What are you doing in there—taking a shower? Are you alright?"

_Great_! House exclaimed in his head. Why wouldn't she just go away and leave him alone? She was really complicating things.

"You can't rush mother nature! The running water helps…you know how it is with men my age!" he yelled back, his hand covering the mouth speaker of the phone in his hand. "Go pick out something you want to get drunk on tonight. If you insist on haunting me then you're going to have to match me drink for drink!"

"Just hurry up!" was the younger doctor's irritated response.

House shook his head tiredly and returned to his phone conversation. "Sorry. The natives are restless. Look, I'll call you later if I can get away from her long enough. Wish me luck."

"Be certain you know your limitations, Greg," Nolan told him with an edge of concern to his voice. If you can't guarantee yourself that you'll be able to spit the alcohol out, don't risk it."

"Right," he answered and then hung up. He didn't have to be reminded of his weakness; he was all too aware of it as it was. He stuck the phone back into his pocket. To be honest, the running water was having an effect on him; he used the bathroom for what it was intended, flushed the toilet, washed his hands and then unlocked the door, emerging.

Thirteen was still standing where he had left her, her arms crossed over her chest.

"Remind me to give you the name of a Urologist I know for your little problem," she told him sarcastically.

He ignored her, brushing past. As he passed the shelves on his way to the front he grabbed a bottle of Grey Goose and a bottle of Glenfiddich and took them to the cashier. He paid in cash and then headed out to his bike without looking back to see if she was following; he knew she was. At his bike he stuffed the booze into his otherwise empty backpack and pulled it on before mounting the bike again. Thirteen climbed on the back and put her helmet on. She wrapped her arms securely around his waist and they were off.

House hoped she liked sleeping on the couch because there was no way he was going to give up the bed.

1 Translation: "Sweetheart"


	33. Chapter 33

**Reconciliations: A House M.D. Story**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its concept, current story line and characters past and current are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

A/N: Sort of another transition chapter. Next chapter we'll begin to see more action again.

Songs that helped inspire this chapter include: "Let me Fall" by Josh Groban and "The Show Must Go On" by Queen.

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Three**

When Wilson awoke following his surgery his first sensation was of movement. As he awoke further he realized that he was lying on a gurney, but all he could see was muted white light and the air he breathed seemed stale and recycled; he was still too dopy to discern why. A minute or so later he became aware of the fact that there was something drawn over his face--a sheet of some kind. A minute later he remembered the significance of having a sheet drawn over his head and began to panic. He was dead, that's what it meant. He had died on the table. However, if he was dead, then how could he be aware of himself and everything around him? He was aware, so therefore he couldn't be dead…so why was there a sheet pulled over his head at that moment?

Trying to lift his arms he winced in pain and relaxed his right one. The pain radiating from it had been awakened and the simple weakness of the damaged muscle made it next to impossible to move it at all. _Oh yeah, you dunce!_ The oncologist thought to himself. _You got shot in the arm. Of course it hurts and doesn't work! _

His left arm, though partially restricted by the IV line (the bags had been removed from the pole and laid next to him on the gurney for the time being), was functional and the only pain wasn't really pain but discomfort as he made his stiff muscles activate. He was grateful that his dominant hand was the one that still functioned properly; this time being a southpaw was a definite advantage. He began to push and tug at the sheet, finding resistance when he tried to uncover his head. It took a moment for him to realize that the sheet was partially tucked under his head. Lifting it, the sheet moved freely. Once his face was uncovered he looked up into the masked faces of three individuals wearing scrubs, two propelling the gurney forward while the remaining one walking along side, giving small commands. That was the one in charge apparently.

"Wha…what's happening?" Wilson vocalized hoarsely. He faintly remembered someone talking to him about the police and Princeton General but little else.

The person walking beside him told the two with her to stop the gurney and turn into an empty side corridor, then looked down at him and smiled behind the mask. "Good Morning, Sunshine!" a female voice said to him. "Actually it's still afternoon—but just barely. I'm Sergeant Gunderson, Princeton P.D. I spoke to you in the Emergency Room before you were taken to surgery. Do you recall me, Doctor?"

The oncologist sought his groggy mind for that particular memory.

"I think so," he answered. "About House."

Gunderson nodded in confirmation. "Yes, it did concern Dr. House. There is a police operation underway to smoke out and apprehend the suspect alleged to be responsible for the series of attacks that have taken place this past week. It involves you as well, but I can't give you any specifics at this time. What I can tell you is that we are currently taking you to the morgue where we will transfer you to a hearse waiting in the loading bay there. I know it's creepy but necessary. A nurse and I will be present the whole way. You'll be taken to the morgue at Princeton General from which you will be taken to a ward room to recover. You'll be registered there under an alias, Terrence Ford. On the drive to the General I'll explain more and my partner and I will be in constant guard over you for your protection. I'm sorry that you have had very little warning about this…this operation was initiated as soon as it was determined that you were a victim of the same perpetrator as the one attacking Dr. House's associates and there was no time to provide you with earlier information."

"Is House…is he okay?" Wilson asked her, still processing what she had just told him.

"Yes, he's fine and actively involved in the operation," the sergeant told him reassuringly. "Now, for the time being I have to cover your head again. Part of the operation is that everyone must believe that you died on the table. I'll explain later."

Wilson had so many questions, particularly concerning that last piece of information she had offered. Everybody thinks he's dead? He didn't protest when Gunderson pulled the sheet back over his head, but he decided that she had better answer some of his questions soon or Dr. James Wilson was going to miraculously rise from the dead!

* * *

Nolan entered Chloe La Salle's hospital room and slid the door shut very quietly behind him. He stood in place until his eyes adjusted to the darkened room. Once he could see a little better he stepped quietly towards the bed where the chaplain and her daughter lay. Sara, hearing the soft footsteps looked up at Nolan and then slowly rose from the bed to meet him.

"How long has she been sleeping?" he asked the thirteen-year old in a whisper.

"About half-an- hour," was the whispered response. "She cried for about twenty minutes after Dr. House was here and dozed off. I don't think she is sleeping very deeply. She keeps opening her eyes, looking around the room for a moment and then dozing off again." Sara paused a moment and then said, "I hate to see _Maman_ like that. She is usually happy. I wish I could tell her the truth."

"I know," Nolan told her. "I'm wondering if it's not best to tell her what's happening for her sake. Your mom has been through a lot the last few days."

Sara nodded. "_Maman_ is very strong but she feels other people's pain too much. It's like she can't help it. Sometimes she will take a few days off from work because she can't take being around other people who are hurting. She says she is sick with a cold or flu, but I know it's because she needs a break from other people's feelings. In the past she has even sent me over to relatives or friends for a few days so she can be completely alone. Afterwards she seems happier for a while."

The psychiatrist listened with fascination; the empathy Sara described her mother as having would certainly serve her well in her line of work but it was a liability in that she would burn out very quickly. He knew of many therapists, counselors and members of the clergy who weren't as sensitive to their own needs as Chloe apparently was and would end up burning out permanently before they finally sought help. It had taken him a number of years to figure out when he needed to take some time off to care for himself. Likewise, Nolan had begun seeing a therapist of his own on a monthly basis to decompress and vent any of his concerns, particularly those that arose from his career; it was a preventative measure intended to stave off the need for a curative.

"She's a smart lady," Nolan told Sara. "Perhaps I should come back tomorrow to speak with her?"

"Speak to me about what?" Chloe said sleepily from the bed and two pairs of eyes turned to look at her. The Chaplain touched a control and the lights near the bed rose somewhat. Nolan finally got a chance to see the woman House had described to him as The Goddess. Even after having gone through what she had he could understand what the diagnostician had said. She was a lovely woman who, he was certain, would be absolutely beautiful under normal circumstances. What he was most impressed with were her large brown eyes that seemed to absorb everything around her rather than just see like most other people did.

Sara moved up to her mother's side. "_Maman_, this is Dr. Nolan. He is Dr. House's psychiatrist."

Chloe's eyes widened slightly in response to that; Nolan stepped up close enough to extend his hand to her. She took it and shook. He could feel her trembling.

"How do you do, Doctor," Chloe said softly, the only volume she could produce.

"It's nice to finally meet you, Dr. LaSalle," he told her with a warm smile. "Greg has told me about you."

Chloe forced a weak smile. "You have the advantage then, Dr. Nolan. Please call me Chloe."

"Alright," he agreed amicably. "Is it alright if I sit and talk with you for a while, if you're feeling up to it?"

Nodding the chaplain gave her assent. Nolan pulled a chair up closer to the bed and sat. For Sara this was her cue.

"_Maman_, I'm going to go to the doctor's lounge to play on the Wii they have there. Dr. Wilson told me…that it would be alright." Sara told her mother.

"Alright," Chloe agreed with a sigh. "For a little while."

Sara nodded and quickly made her exit, allowing the chaplain and the psychiatrist time to speak privately. Nolan watched her go. "You have a remarkable daughter, Chloe," he told her. "Considering the circumstances she is holding up well."

Chloe nodded and then cut to the chase. "Doctor, are you here because of Greg? Is he in trouble?" she asked anxiously. "You know that his best friend has just died, don't you?"

"Yes," he told her calmly, "I'm here for Greg. Presently he is in no danger and I'm aware of the news concerning Dr. Wilson. Chloe, Greg asked me to come by here to check on you. He's been very concerned about you and how you're coping."

"He's concerned about me?" she asked incredulously. "He shouldn't be worrying about me right now. He needs to be taking care of himself!"

"What he should or should not be doing is subjective and irrelevant," the psychiatrist said with a small smile. "The fact remains that he is deeply concerned about you."

Chloe sighed and shook her head irritably. She looked him square in the eyes. "Greg was here a while ago to tell me about James. He was…for lack of a better word… devastated in his own way. He was withdrawing into himself, repressing his emotions rather than expressing them and getting them out. He spoke very darkly about things, saying things like it is his fault that James is dead and I'm here in the hospital. He…he said that he should have been the one to have been shot, not James and that he wants Tritter to find him and…and ultimately kill him so that he'll go away and stop hurting the rest of us. I told him not to talk that way, I told him that he was a gift to me from God, but he told me that instead he is a hazard. Then he left. He wouldn't let me touch him or comfort him. I'm terrified for him!"

Looking at her Nolan had no doubt that she was; he was concerned that she was heading for a panic attack; her breathing had increased considerably since he had arrived.

"Chloe," he told her. "I'm aware of how Greg has been and I want you to rest assured that he is going to be alright. I'm here in Princeton to make certain of that. What you need to do right now is to try to relax. You are susceptible right now to being overwhelmed and potentially having a panic attack. Take some long deep breaths through your nose and exhale them through your mouth for me please."

Appearing reluctant Chloe nonetheless listen to what he said.

"I'm going to check your pulse if that's alright?" he asked.

Nodding, Chloe continued breathing while the psychiatrist took her slender wrist in his hand and felt for the pulse. Nolan frowned imperceptibly. It was very high. If they were unable to lower it themselves he'd be required to call for the doctor in charge of her case.

"You're pulse is a little higher than I'd like to see it, Chloe," he told her gently. "I want you to continue with your breathing and close your eyes. Try to relax your muscles from the top of your head to the end of your toes, okay? Imagine that one by one they are releasing their tension and are at rest. Continue breathing as you do this."

After a couple of minutes of this relaxation exercise Nolan checked her pulse again, it was still higher than he would have liked but considerably lower than the first time he checked. Her breathing was slower and smoother as well.

"How do you feel now, Chloe?" he asked her.

"Better," she acknowledged with a nod. "Thank you."

He was satisfied that she would be alright for now. "Chloe, I've been debating telling you something that I feel you should know but have been instructed not reveal. Seeing your reaction to Greg's visit earlier and your concern for him, I've decided that I'm going to break the rules and tell you."

"Wait," she said, "I don't want you to violate any confidentiality; I'm well aware of HIPA and I don't want to see you in any kind of trouble."

Nolan nodded. "I appreciate that, Chloe, but I won't be violating HIPA, I'll be violating rules set forth by the Princeton P.D."

The chaplain appeared confused. "I don't understand."

Taking a deep breath and exhaling, the psychiatrist explained to her the entire police operation to capture Tritter using Wilson's supposed death and House as bait.

"So let me get this straight," Chloe said once he was finished. "James was shot but didn't die—that's a ruse that everybody must believe is true so Tritter doesn't sense a trap, Oui?"

"Correct"

"So where is James now?" she asked. "He can't be recuperating in this hospital because it would be too risky—somebody may see who shouldn't and the cat will be out of the bag, as they say. Where is he staying?"

"At another hospital in Princeton under an assumed name," Nolan told her. "He has a personal guard for his safety until Tritter is caught. He'll be apprised of the situation as soon as possible."

Chloe nodded slowly, appearing to be taking it all in. "And Greg is going to pretend to miss the memorial so people believe he's in deep mourning—and using again—and you hope that Tritter will seek out Greg to kill him knowing that he is alone and vulnerable?"

"That's the plan," Nolan confirmed, not feeling all that confident about it working. It seemed to him that there was a lot of presumption taking place. There was no guarantee that Tritter will buy the ruse and even if he does, he may not seek out House as the police believe he will.

Chloe shook her head adamantly. There was a look of disapproval on her face. "I don't like it, Dr. Nolan. Not one bit. It's too risky! How can the police ask a member of the general public to risk his life that way? Look how many of us have been hurt—even killed—because of Lucas and Tritter, and we weren't trying to be targeted. I don't want Greg to offer himself up as bait. It scares me!"

"I agree with you, Chloe," the psychiatrist concurred. "However the police believe this is the only way and Greg had agreed to go along with it."

"He strikes me as very stubborn when he makes his mind up to things," the chaplain said, frowning worriedly. "I don't suppose he would listen to _you_?"

Shaking his head he gave her the answer. He had already tried but as Chloe had observed, House could be very stubborn and very determined. They were useful traits on occasion but when they pertained to something as dangerous as what House had agreed to they could prove to be detrimental to reasoning and debate.

Chloe was quiet for a few moments; Nolan could see the battle of raw emotions taking place inside of her. Worrying about House's safety was enough without battling the emotions related to the traumatic events she had gone through. The psychiatrist was more concerned about that, quite frankly.

"There is something else I'd like to discuss with you Chloe that I think is very important," he told her carefully.

She looked at him, puzzled, wondering what else he could possibly have to tell her. When she didn't say anything, he took it as implied permission to continue.

"You've been through a great deal of trauma over the past four days, emotionally as well as physically," Nolan declared. "How are you feeling?"

Looking away from him, the woman began to contemplate the question while still worrying about House. The psychiatrist wanted her to focus on her own well-being for the present.

"I'm okay, I guess," she finally answered, frowning and shrugging her shoulders. "Physically I'm tired, and in a moderate amount of pain but it's tolerable."

"And emotionally?" he asked softly. "How are you feeling right now?"

Chloe still avoided his eyes and shrugged again. "I'm frightened for Greg," she replied.

"Is that all?"

"Yes," she told him but she was shaking her head almost imperceptibly.

Nolan sat back in his chair. "Do you realize that the physical manifestation of your answer was opposite to the verbal manifestation?"

Her eyebrows nearly met when she frowned. "How do you mean?"

"You said the word 'yes'," he explained patiently, "but you shook your head from side to side which in North American culture signifies a negative response. Why do you suppose you did that?"

"I wasn't aware that I was," the chaplain told him, shifting uncomfortably for a second. "I don't know if it means anything."

"Chloe, you're a psychologist as well as a chaplain. You know better than that," Nolan smiled. "You have conflicting emotions. I believe you're worried about Greg, but there is something more that's going on. Tell me about that."

She cocked her head and smirked, "I didn't know you came to Princeton to spend time psychoanalyzing me, Dr. Nolan."

"I'm here for a number of reasons," he told her, "and you're deflecting. Your body language is just screaming that there are a number of emotions at war in you right now. What are they?"

He saw her begin to fidget with the tape holding the IV line securely in place on her left wrist. Irritation played at her eyes and lips.

"Why is this necessary?" Chloe demanded, her voice hard. "Our concern should be for Greg right now!"

"Why?" the psychiatrist asked, shrugging one shoulder. "I've told you that Greg is okay and at present in no more danger than he's been in all week. Why shouldn't we be concerned about you for a little while, Chloe?"

She began to chew on her bottom lip and wiggle around again. He tried to catch her gaze and hold it but the chaplain was having great success at evading him. When she didn't answer him, he tried a different tack.

"How do you feel about the events that took place during your captivity and escape?" he inquired. "When you were tied up and gagged what was going through your mind?"

Rolling her eyes and sighing Chloe answered, "There were a lot of thoughts. I was wondering what they were going to do with me, especially after what they needed me for was completed. I was looking for ways in which I could possibly escape. I thought about Sara and Greg and wondered if I was ever going to see them again. I even thought that Lucas was sly and sneaky-smart but beyond that he was pretty much an idiot and I contemplated how I might use that to my advantage."

"Were you at all frightened?"

"Yes, of course!" She answered. "But I couldn't allow myself to sit and wallow in it and let it paralyze me. I knew that if I was going to survive I had to keep my wits about me and look for possible ways to escape."

"How did you manage to control your fear?" Nolan pursued. "Fear is an extremely powerful emotion; in fact, it is one of the most primal of emotions we have. It's linked to our instinct to survive. Most people find it difficult under the circumstances you were in to keep their fear at bay, so I'm curious as to how you did that."

Chloe shook her head, trying to come up with an intelligent answer to his question. Nolan also suspected that she was trying to figure out exactly where he was going with this.

"I don't know!" she said, her voice rising with her frustration. "I just did! I kept telling myself to think, to pay attention."

"So the fear kept distracting you that's why you had to keep reminding yourself to focus and think rather than feel?" Nolan asked to confirm if he understood what she was saying.

"Yes," she told him, still appearing frustrated. "That's what I did."

"When the fear kept coming back," the psychiatrist pressed, "how did you feel about that?"

He noticed that she was breathing harder again. Her eyes were piercing. "I was angry that I couldn't control it better. I kept thinking that I was screwing up and I got angry. Okay?"

Nodding, the psychiatrist said quietly. "Absolutely okay. How are you feeling right now?"

Chloe glared at him, her hands clenching and unclenching. "I'm frustrated!"

"Frustrated?" he repeated. "Can you think of a more powerful word for that?"

Her eyes were suddenly glistening with tears. "I'm angry. I'm furious, Okay? I'm just so furious!"

"Furious with what?"

"With…with having to talk about this right now when there are more important things you could be doing!" she nearly shouted. "I'm furious that I'm stuck here in this bed when all I want to do right now is jump up and go to Greg! But no! A couple of moronic maniacs with giant chips on their shoulders had to hog-tie me, try to strangle me and then force me to…to--."

"To what?" Nolan asked quickly. "What did they force you to do?"

The tears in the chaplain's eyes began to fall down her cheeks but her words and countenance remained angry. "To…to do something I…I…didn't want to have to do!" she cried. Her body was trembling violently and her breathing was rapid. The psychiatrist knew that she wouldn't be able to physically tolerate much more.

"What did you have to do, Chloe?" he asked her. "What?"

Her eyes met his now. "I had to…I had to kill him!" she said explosively and then began to weep. "I had to kill Lucas. I didn't want to—I just wanted to knock him unconscious so I could run away!"

"I know," Nolan told her soothingly. "I know that you didn't intend to kill him."

"I can't get the picture out of my head!" she said, still crying. "He was just lying there on the floor. He had this huge dent in his skull and I saw blood and brain…his eyes just stared up at me and I…." Her voice trailed off as huge, body-wrenching sobs poured forth; she hid her face in her hands. The psychiatrist sat forward in his seat and reached out to place a steadying hand on her shoulder.

"It's alright, Chloe. It's okay to be angry at that. It's okay to be sad, and afraid. What's not okay is bottling your feelings up inside. They have to come out."

The chaplain lifted her face from her hands. "Why did Lucas have to do it? Why did he make me murder him?"

"You didn't murder Lucas," the psychiatrist told her compassionately. "Killing someone in self-defense isn't murder. You did it to save yourself from certain death and in the process you saved a baby girl as well."

"So why do I feel so guilty?" she demanded, shaking her head. "Why is the Holy Spirit convicting me for what I did if it wasn't murder?"

"I don't know the answer to that," Nolan told her. "I'm not familiar enough with the spiritual aspects to be able to say. But…are you certain that it is the 'Holy Spirit' convicting you? Could it be something else, something more natural than supernatural?"

"What do you mean?" Chloe asked, trying to stop her crying, to calm down.

"Guilt is an emotion that sometimes can be generated without there actually being anything to justify it," he explained. "People feel false-guilt all of the time when rationally there is no reason for it. For example, when a woman, or a man for that matter, is assaulted, it is common for the victim to blame herself for what happened and that generates guilt. Now to the rational outside observer this belief is in fact not true. She is not to blame, thus blaming herself has no merit. The guilt that is generated therefore has no merit—but she still feels it. However, by recognizing that her belief is fallacious and thus so is her guilt she is able to move beyond it.

"You were the victim in your situation. You did absolutely nothing to put yourself into captivity. The wrong-doing was done by Tritter and Lucas. You killed Lucas because he put you into a position where you had no other choice. If he hadn't been party to the abduction, you wouldn't have had to hit him to protect yourself. Your actions were justified. You feel guilty because as a healthy, moral and compassionate human being you don't like the idea of people dying, especially if their death was precipitated by something you did. But you're not guilty. You do realize that, don't you?"

The woman nodded her head slowly, brushing the tears off of her face. She was breathing slower again and the violent trembling had stopped.

"You did good work here Chloe," Nolan told her with a smile. "But it's going to take a lot more work to heal from this. I strongly recommend you pursue therapy. That goes for Sara as well. If you like, I'd be more than happy to refer you to an excellent therapist in the Princeton area."

Chloe nodded. "Yes, I would appreciate that." she said with a weak smile. She paused for a moment and the asked the psychiatrist, "So this was Greg's idea, was it?"

Nolan nodded. "Talking to you about the abduction was, yes. Telling you about the plan to capture Tritter was my decision. Greg is more concerned about you right now than him. Knowing that we've talked will take a lot of pressure off of his shoulders. He told me that I could tell you that he was very upset about having to deceive you like he did earlier. He regrets it a great deal but it was part of the instructions the police gave him."

"I understand," she replied mildly. "He is a very good actor. He had me fooled completely. Knowing about his talent is a very good thing." She smiled knowingly.

"I quite agree," the psychiatrist told her with a chuckle. He added quickly, "You don't need to be concerned about Sara. Arrangements have been made for her care until you're well enough to return home."

Chloe nodded in gratitude.

"I need to be going," he told her. "Are you going to be okay?"

"Yes, I think so."

Nolan nodded, gave her shoulder an encouraging squeeze. "I'll be taking Sara home. I'll go pry her away from the Wii and send her in to say good-bye."

He made his leave.

* * *

House unlocked the door to his apartment and opened it, walking inside and Thirteen followed, shutting the door behind him. She couldn't remember if she had ever been there before, but it didn't look familiar to her. It was an older building and the architectural details showed it but instead of looking old it looked classic. It was definitely a bachelor's apartment that may have had a woman's touch added to it at some point of time in the past but it was very masculine. Bookshelves lined a wall holding not only medical books but also literary classics, philosophy, music and hobbies. They were dust covered; everything in the abandoned apartment was covered in dust. Drop covers had been thrown over the furniture and a massive object near the living room window that was either a grand piano or a car—and it wasn't shaped like a car. While the living space was cluttered and lacked in organization, it was apparent that it had been cleaned not long before the diagnostician had left for rehab and treatment. The kitchen was just off of the living room and down a corridor was a bathroom and what had to be the bedroom.

He tossed his keys onto a small table next to the door and hung up his jacket on the coat stand. He reached to Thirteen for hers and his helmet which he hung up as well. He limped into the living room proper with his backpack, dropping the bag onto the cloth-covered coffee table. A puff of displaced dust rose into the air.

"Nice place," Thirteen told him. "Huge living room—I guess it has to be to accommodate your piano."

The diagnostician shrugged indifferently and began to remove the drop cloths from the furniture. She joined in, sneezing a couple of times as she did. House seemed unaffected by it himself, but he moved to the window and opened it for fresh air. He hadn't said a single word to her since the liquor store. Thirteen knew that it was due partly to his grief and partly to the fact that he was still pissed off with her tagging along. She paused and noticed when he moved the sheet over the grand piano and bench; he ran a hand along the surface of the instrument that resembled a caress on a lover's skin. A fond smile touched his eyes and mouth. He gathered up the cloths and threw them haphazardly into a hall closet, returned to grab his backpack and then went into his bedroom, presumably to uncover everything in there as well.

Thirteen walked around the living room, taking in everything. She noticed his stereo and a cabinet near it holding a serious collection of vintage vinyls as well as cassette tapes and CDs. His taste in music was fairly eclectic although she noticed that he shied away from modern pop, Urban and hip-hop, and loaded up on jazz, Blues, classic rock and early R&B.

She wandered into the kitchen, which looked like it was rarely used. She suspected House used to eat a lot of take-out, delivery and other foods that required a minimal amount of preparation. She checked out the cabinets, curious about their contents. They were empty for the most part; a few dishes, bowls, cups and a small variety of glass wear. As far as food went there were some canned goods including tuna, stews and chili and especially soup. She found that somewhat amusing; House didn't strike her as being a soup kind of guy. She had pictured him as strictly a meat and potatoes kind of man. There were a couple of boxes of outdated cereal, some spices and salt and a box of crackers which was actually still good. Of course it was, she reminded herself, you can't have soup without crackers! One thing she found particularly lacking was any sign of alcohol or drugs. She wondered if someone like Wilson had scoured the apartment for the offending items once House was in the psychiatric hospital. She wondered if he had a secret stash of Vicodin hidden away somewhere. Thirteen hated the idea of her boss throwing his life away again.

House entered the kitchen with the liquor and set the bottles down on the counter. She noticed that the scotch had already been opened.

"Don't do it," she said to him, shaking her head. "Don't throw away your sobriety over this."

"Can you think of a better reason?" he asked bitterly. She could smell the alcohol on his breath and sighed. House set the bottles down on the counter and went to the cabinet, pulling out two hiball glasses and placing them on the counter as well.

"It's stupid," she told him bluntly, leaning against the counter. "It's not going to change anything. Wilson will still be dead whether you're drunk or not."

"Yes," he responded, frowning, "but at least drunk I don't have to think about it." He opened the bottle of scotch, looking at her with a raised eyebrow. "One finger or two?"

"No fingers," she told him. "I'm not going to encourage this."

"I don't need encouragement," House assured her, pouring three fingers for himself. In the second glass he poured an equal amount. He held the second glass out to her. "I told you, if you're going to annoy me then you have to drink with me."

Reluctantly she took it from him. He walked towards his piano carrying the bottle under his arm. Thirteen took her glass to the sink and dumped it without touching it. She set the glass in the sink and then returned to the living room.

House had set the bottle and glass down on the piano and sat at it. He began running his fingers along the keyboard, playing a small ubiquitous tune as a warm up. She smiled softly, sitting in an armchair facing the piano to listen. She saw the diagnostician take a couple of swallows from his glass and then he began to play some light jazz, she had no idea what piece it was. She enjoyed jazz but didn't know enough about it to play name that tune. As he played a small, genuine smile came to his face. He smiled so rarely and when she had seen him smile it was usually sarcastic in nature and lasted only a couple of seconds at the most. As he played the smile remained on his face; he closed his eyes, not needing sheet music or sight. He was incredibly talented and as he played it was like all of his concerns left him and he became the music. It was a side of her boss that she had never seen before and she liked it.

He finished the one piece and then without stopping transitioned into yet another peace that was much more sonorous but equally well played. The smile on his face faded and in its place a slightly sad frown appeared. In fact his expression and posture seemed to change every time the mood of the piece did; his soul and the music were one. She had heard the old saying that 'music hath charms to soothe the savage beast" and it seemed to be true when it came to House.

Thirteen wondered what it was that made such a man so miserable. He was brilliant, a genius, good-looking in a rugged, unassuming kind of way, and obviously very talented. Certainly there was his disability and the chronic pain associated with it; she could only imagine how devastating it would be to lose a part of your body and be forever crippled because of it, but that had happened years ago and she knew many people who suffered a disability or disease with chronic pain involvement who passed through the grieving process in one piece and went on to live contented, even happy lives. Why was it so different with the diagnostician, she wondered. There had to be more involved than just his disability.

_I guess I'll never know unless I ask,_ she told herself with a mental shrug.

Completing the piece, House stopped to take a couple more swallows of scotch and then refilled his glass. During this break Thirteen gathered the courage to question him.

"Aside from the obvious, Wilson's death," she began, "what makes you so miserable from day to day?"

House looked over at her and frowned. "Why do you want to know?" he asked suspiciously.

The younger doctor shrugged. "Just curious. Other than for your disability, you seem to have established for yourself a fairly decent life—great career, one of the best at what you do, you're obviously very talented and _über_intelligent and you're not bad-looking. What is there in your life that makes you so angry and unhappy?"

He glared at her for at least a minute and Thirteen forced herself not to look away from his penetrating gaze. Behind his eyes she saw a debate occurring: _Do I tell her, or do I keep my mouth shut? Do I trust her or is she going to use what I tell her against me? Is she really just curious or is she up to something more?_ House had the most expressive eyes when he wasn't consciously repressing.

"My life hasn't exactly been a charmed one," he grumbled. "That's all you need to know."

"I don't think anybody lives a charmed life," she asserted, undaunted. "I think we all have our baggage we carry around like pack mules. Just some mules seem to tolerate it better than others. Why don't you?"

"Because I'm _special,_" he sneered cynically. "Look, I don't intend to play twenty questions with you all night!"

Thirteen sighed and shook her head. "Fine, whatever." She went to get her cell phone and searched her directory. "Look, I'm hungry. What do you feel like eating: Chinese? Pizza? Ooh, Indian! I haven't had that for a while…House? Indian good?"

He was tickling the ivories, creating his own little runs and mini-melodies absently. "Whatever," he answered.

Thirteen dialed up the Indian restaurant and placed an order and then returned to the chair. She watched as House finished his second glass of scotch and poured a third. He began to play again and while it was still remarkable she noticed a little irregularity with the tempo from time to time as well as the occasional misplayed note. The alcohol was beginning to have its effect on him. He didn't seem to notice. After a while he stopped playing in the middle of a piece and just sat there staring off into nowhere. The younger doctor wondered what was going on inside that amazing mind of his.

House rose a little unsteadily from the piano, took his cane in one hand and juggled the scotch bottle and glass in the other. He made his way towards his bedroom, his limp definitely affected. He disappeared in there, shutting the door hard behind him. Thirteen shook her head sadly. He had been doing so well, or so it had seemed. At work he appeared to be so much more at ease, even pleasant at times and occasionally you could catch him smiling if you were observant. He had the kind of smile that was infectious when it was real. She feared that the man she had seen emerging from the monster was going to be overwhelmed by the latter again, perhaps never to reemerge again—but he was a grown man. She couldn't stop him from relapsing if he was determined to do so; she was there to make certain that he didn't decide to join Wilson in the grave. That's why she'd give him a few minutes alone behind a closed door but then she would check on him to make certain he wasn't taking his own life.

* * *

Setting the glass and bottle of colored water down on the table next to his bed he sat down on the end of the bed and sighed. He rubbed his face tiredly. House was finding it difficult to keep up the act…it would have been so much easier if Thirteen wasn't around to watch his every move. He knew he could be very convincing when he tried; this wasn't the first time in his life he had acted a certain way to accomplish something he wanted and with the help of props and helpful items like eye drops, a rinse of alcohol in his mouth from time to time and the very real depression he felt over everything he was pulling it off…but for how much longer? Thirteen wasn't stupid—if she had been, he wouldn't have hired her; it simply wasn't true that he hired beautiful women like Cameron and then Thirteen solely for their natural attributes and assets, as it were. He didn't want deadweight on his team so they had to be exceptionally bright and talented. That being said, it wouldn't take long before he screwed up somehow and the younger doctor caught it and called him on it. Somehow he had to think of a way to get rid of her…but that was going to be difficult. She was proving to be a worthy adversary…normally he would appreciate that but not now.

He had to admit, having the real scotch in his mouth and not actually swallowing it had been a temptation he nearly given in to. House had had to think about what he would be throwing away if he relapsed: his health, his sanity, the trust and respect he was slowly earning back from his team, Cuddy, and Wilson, and very likely any chance of a future with Chloe. It had made the choice a lot easier to make and he'd spat the booze into the bathroom before taking the decoys to the kitchen. It had been a huge gamble when he had poured a glass of pseudo-scotch for Thirteen. If she had actually drank it then the gig would have been up, but he had been fairly certain she wouldn't call his bluff and fortunately he had been right.

To make things easier for him in the future House had grabbed a couple of cotton balls from the bathroom and stuck them in his pocket. He now took one of them out. He limped to the chest of drawers and opened the second drawer from the top; under a camouflage of t-shirts he'd left behind when he'd moved in with Wilson he pulled out the bottle of the real stuff he'd hidden. Taking the cap off the bottle he very carefully dampened the cotton ball, being careful not to soak it. He put the cap back on the bottle and hid it again. He stuck the cotton ball into his cheek, packing it deep between his cheek and his upper gum. The taste of it brought back the urge to pull that bottle out of the drawer again and indulge, but he had his mind set to resist that, and when he set his mind to something it took a lot more than a craving to change it. Of course, as soon as he could the diagnostician would dump the booze; he was strong-willed, but he was still human and if a weaker moment were to present itself he wasn't certain he could trust himself around it.

He moved to his backpack and from a side pocket he pulled out a pill bottle labeled in big, clear letters 'Vicodin'. It was full to the top and thus rattled very little. He opened the bottle and tapped out two oblong white tablets. He was amazed at how real those little sugar pills looked like the real thing; if Detective Molonitny hadn't told him they were phonies he never would have guessed until he popped them into his mouth—and he had taken them for many years. The detective had told him that they were used by the Narc unit during stings. He smiled in appreciation of how sneaky they were.

He put the pills back into the bottle. There was no point in wasting them with no one around to see him take them; he'd pop a few later in front of Thirteen.

House's cell phone rang and he grabbed it quickly. The call display said it was Nolan.

"House," the diagnostician answered succinctly.

"Sara and I are on our way back to Wilson's apartment," Nolan announced, forgoing pleasantries. "I talked with Chloe."

"And?" House said, feeling a little anxious.

"She was resistant to discussing what happened with Lucas, as you predicted, but after a little creative persistence she opened a little to me. She's going to be alright, but I recommended that she see a therapist. She was open to that…and that's all I can tell you. If you want to know anything more you'll have to ask her. I…made the decision to inform her of what is really going on, Greg. She was near panic believing that you were grieving as deeply as you appeared during your visit with her and it was having a deleterious effect on her physically as well as emotionally. She understands the need for secrecy and she understands why you had to deceive her."

House exhaled audibly in relief. "Good to hear," he said.

"How are you managing with your unexpected guest?" Nolan asked him.

"I'm contemplating drugging her," House told him. "However, Wilson removed nearly every pharmaceutical in my apartment while I was at Mayfield and I didn't come prepared. He missed a couple of bottles of Vicodin I had stashed away—relax, I dumped them down the toilet. Somewhere there are going to be a lot of fish feeling no pain."

"Glad to hear it," his therapist told him. "I will be calling Detective Molonitny next and I will inform him of your situation. He may have an idea or two up his sleeve. How have you been with the alcohol?"

"I'll probably be dreaming that I'm swimming in scotch tonight but so far I'm good," the diagnostician answered. "But keep your phone on tonight, just in case." The wasn't any humor in his words and Nolan, he was certain, caught it.

"I will, Greg. I'll call again later."

"Right," House acknowledged and hung up. He threw the phone onto the bed; he pulled his eye drops out of his jeans pocket and put a few into his eyes and blinked so that they ran down his face. He rubbed at his eyes and face until they were sufficiently irritated and red. The diagnostician grabbed the bottle of phony booze and gulped down some, then grabbed the glass and his cane. He readied himself before opening the bedroom door and limp-staggering out. Intermission was over; on with Act Two.


	34. Chapter 34

**Reconciliations: A House M.D. Story**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its concept, current story line and characters past and current are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

A/N: I promised you a little action…enjoy, and remember to tell me what you think!

Songs that helped inspire this chapter include: "The Moment of Truth" by Matthew West and "Jump" by Van Halen.

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Four**

Riding in a hearse while still alive had to have been one of the creepiest things Wilson had ever had to do. Just the knowledge that the normal passengers in the back end of that vehicle were corpses made the oncologist's skin crawl. In his area of medicine he witnessed a lot of death, but once his patients were gone he had little contact with them, so the idea of dead bodies bothered James Wilson just about as much as anyone else. He imagined that he could smell death in the walls of the vehicle but knew that had to be a figment of his overactive imagination.

In the front of the hearse was an unidentified driver, a nurse and Sergeant Gunderson. Once they were in the privacy of the vehicle Wilson was allowed to uncover his head and Gunderson could remove her surgical cap and mask. He had caught a glimpse of her and he had to admit that she was a pretty woman. Long and straight strawberry blonde hair was pulled up into a messy knot on the back of her head. She was fair skinned with giant brown freckles that cascaded across her nose onto the apple of both cheeks which were a healthy pink blush. Her grey eyes smiled perpetually it seemed. She was athletically built and looked like should could easily take a round out of Wilson if she wanted to yet at the same time managed to maintain an air of femininity. He figured she was in her early to mid-thirties and wore no rings.

"How are you doing back there, Dr. Wilson?" Gunderson asked him chipperly.

"About as good as can be expected," the oncologist answered wryly, "considering that I 'm riding in the back of a hearse. Could use a little morphine, though."

"I'm sure they'll take care of you as soon as we have you safely at Princeton General," the Sergeant told him with a smile that he couldn't see. "Do you feel up to discussing what is going on now or would you rather rest and I'll fill you in later?"

"I don't think I'll be able to sleep back here," Wilson told her. He was exhausted and still feeling dopey from the anesthetic, his arm hurt like hell and he was nauseous as well, but in spite of all that he didn't want to wait another minute longer to find out what kind of mess House had got himself—and now his best friend—into.

"Okay, Gunderson said, "then I'll start at the beginning. The whole operation boils down to using you and Dr. House to smoke Tritter out of hiding where we can catch him before he hurts anyone else. You have been declared dead, not having survived the gunshot injury you received from Tritter—at least, that's what absolutely everyone not involved in the operation must believe. You put House in charge of your final arrangements and there is going to be a memorial service held for you on Tuesday, which will be widely publicized in the local and state papers. However, Dr. House is in mourning for you and has started using again. He will not attend the memorial because he will not be able to bring himself to be there; instead he will be stoned out of his mind at home alone. This was House's idea based upon what he thinks would be the most realistic scenario of his behavior were you to genuinely die."

Wilson closed his eyes for a moment, his chest tightening. Just the thought of House ending up in such a state should he ever die—when he died—was painful for him to consider. Yet he wondered if his reaction to House's death would be all that dissimilar. Troubling Wilson was also the fact that at that very moment family and friends were being informed that he had died and would be in mourning. Thinking about their pain only added to his own.

"Of course the rumors of House's fall off of the sobriety wagon will be released for broadcast across the grapevine, hopefully for Tritter to hear. Our hope is that he will show up at the memorial covertly—many sociopathic killers show up at the scenes of the crimes they committed and victim's funeral to feed off of the pain they've brought upon the others. We suspect that Tritter will hear the rumor and will decide to feed on House's pain so he'll seek out your friend either to gloat or to kill him. When he does our people will be there to nab him before any harm can come to House. This all based on an FBI profiler's recommendations."

Knots began to form in the oncologist's stomach as the full realization of the kind of danger his friend was putting himself into struck him.

"What if the cops watching House screw up?" Wilson demanded. "He could get killed! Tritter isn't playing games—he seriously wants to see him suffer and die. How can you guarantee that House won't be harmed?"

Gunderson was a little hesitant with her reply. "We can't be, Dr. Wilson. There is definitely an element of risk involved and Dr. House knew that when he agreed to go along with the operation. Please know, however, that our officers are highly trained and skilled individuals and every safety precaution possible will be taken."

Feeling a stress headache coming on Wilson closed his eyes. The pain he felt was clouding his ability to reason as well as he would have liked, but even so he knew that this was a situation that could turn out very badly. It made Wilson consider again exactly how hard he would take it if House was killed trying to carry this out.

"So what can I do?" Wilson demanded. "You don't actually expect me to sit around protecting my own ass while he's hanging his out in the open with a giant bull's-eye painted on it?"

The Sergeant responded firmly, "That's _exactly_ what you are going to do, Doctor. There's nothing you can do to help us more than to sit back, pretend that you're Terrence Ford, and wait it out. It's my assignment to see to it that you do that and make certain that you're kept safe. If you have any ideas to thwart me on that, you'd better think again! I have no problem with handcuffing you to your hospital bed and gagging you if I have to!"

Wilson cursed under his breath. Whatever happened to his civil rights? She couldn't just hold him against his will! What could they possibly do to him if he simply decided not to cooperate with their 'operation' and made it clear to the hospital staff at Princeton General that he was, in fact, the very much living James Wilson?

As if reading his mind Gunderson informed him, "Your friend's best chance of getting out of this alive and in one piece depends upon this being carried out exactly as planned. If it gets out that you are actually alive Tritter will see this for what it is—a giant trap. If he does he'll stay underground and hide out until things cool down, at which time he'll reemerge to attack House when we all least expect it and your friend will almost certainly end up dead."

Well, that was it then. His hands were tied. He had no other choice but to comply if he hoped to see House again alive. Just sitting and waiting for news was going to drive him crazy with worry. At least he knew what was really going on; Wilson couldn't help but think about people like his family, Cuddy, and Chloe were going through believing that he was dead and House had relapsed and was on the brink of madness with grief.

_No,_ the oncologist decided determinedly, _I will not just sit here while everyone else suffers. I have to find a way to make certain Tritter is caught without this insanity dragging out any longer._ Wilson had no idea how he was going to be able to do that, but he would spend every waking moment working on it until a viable idea came to him. House was not a piece of cheese to be left out to be taken by a giant Tritter-sized rat!

* * *

Candles illuminated the apartment; the power had been turned off while the apartment was sitting empty. Thirteen had gone hunting around for candles and a flashlight before daylight had been lost for the day.

House sat slumped on his lumpy leather sofa, a glass of scotch held loosely in his hand and tilting dangerously close to spilling all over him. He was semi-conscious, stoned out of his mind on booze and Vicodin. Thirteen had felt positively sick to her stomach when House had pulled the all-too-familiar pill bottle out of his jeans pocket and popped two of the white narcotic tablets into his mouth, washing them down with his drink. It was like watching someone pull the plug of the life support machine keeping him alive out of the wall. Those two little pills had been the death knell to all of House's work to turn his life around. She had nearly started to bawl.

Anticipating the inevitable spill Thirteen rose from her chair and went to House, taking the glass out of his hand and setting it down on the coffee table. The diagnostician was roused somewhat by the action and he looked blearily up at her; it was such a pathetic sight that she had to look away from him before he saw the pity in her eyes.

"Give it back!" House slurred, reaching a wild hand out towards her.

"No," Thirteen told him and then bit her lip to keep herself from showing just how upset she was feeling. "You've had enough."

"Fuck off," he responded, pushing himself forward from the back of the sofa and reaching for the glass. He seemed to have difficulty seeing straight enough to actually grasp it. The younger doctor grabbed his hand firmly to stop him and he shook her off violently. "Dammit, min' your own business!"

"I am," she told him, sounding very tired. "If you overdose on booze and pills I'll have to look for another job." Thirteen grabbed his glass and took it to the kitchen, dumping it into the sink. She returned to see the diagnostician trying to rise to his feet unsuccessfully, falling back onto the sofa and cursing drunkenly. She fell onto the sofa next to him and laid her head back, staring at the ceiling.

So much had happened in so little time that she hadn't had a chance before this to just sit and process it all. She thought of Chase; so young and so heartbroken, literally drinking himself to death; glancing over at her boss Thirteen seriously wondered if he wouldn't be next. Perhaps that was the point, she mused sadly. Perhaps House was trying to drink himself to death being unable to face a future without his best friend in it. Chase hadn't been able to face a future without his wife in it. Even if House was able to pull himself back out of the pit once the rawness of Wilson's passing was over it would never feel the same in that differential room again. Not only would the Aussie surgeon not be there but neither would Taub whose life had been snuffed out so pointlessly by a bullet in the brain. No longer would she be able to laugh under her breath every time House cracked a short joke or enjoy the dry sarcasm with which the plastic surgeon would parley in return. He was gone as well, never to return.

Eric's face came to her. The neurologist was still trapped in the darkness of his unconscious mind. Even if he ever managed to surface and regain consciousness again, what would he be? Would he still be the driven, overachieving doctor he once was, or would he end up brain damaged, unable to walk, or talk, or feed himself? Would he know who he is and what he used to be? Would he still have the mind of a man, or of a child? Would he remember her and what they had once had together? Would she ever have the chance to tell him that she was sorry, that she forgave him, and that she still loved him? Or in the end would his body simply give up and surrender his life?

And House—would he ever be able to carry on or would this be the blow that finally knocked him out for good? What would the hospital be like with Wilson's friendly smile and wit to balance House's surly personality and sarcasm? Without Tweedledee and Tweedledum causing havoc, how boring that hospital would be! She wouldn't want to stay, even if a job was available for her. Why did everything have to be turned upside down around her?

Thirteen was unaware of the fact that there were tears running down her otherwise impassive face until House pointed it out to her.

"Quit cryin'," he told her gruffly. "Doesn' change anythin'. Life's fucked up, always has been, always wi' be."

Wiping the tears off of her face with her hands she thought about that. For as far back as she could remember there had never been a truly happy period in her life that she could look back upon for strength during these present trials. The closest she had ever known was the time she had spent with Foreman, and it had been such a short time. Yet, in spite of the way things were right then Thirteen forced herself to believe that there would be happier, more settled days ahead for her before the ticking time-bomb in her went off and her mind and body began to self-destruct. Otherwise she would have to admit that House was right and there really wasn't anything to look forward to.

"I wish…." She began to say and then allowed her voice to trail off as she searched for the right words. "I wish I could help you see that you're wrong, House. I wish you could understand that just because the past was shitty doesn't mean the future has to be. I know that you feel like Wilson has abandoned you to a future of loneliness and isolation, but that's just not true. These past weeks have opened my eyes to the fact that people _can_ change—that even you are redeemable. Maybe you haven't been able to see in yourself what the rest of us have seen happening in you but the fact is I have been amazed by the person I've seen you becoming and I admire you for the courage and strength you've shown in spite of all the crap trying to hold you back. So you slipped here tonight…that doesn't mean it's all over for you. You can stand up again, shake this off and start again—and you won't be alone. I'll be here for you, and so will Eric, and Cuddy. Wilson believed in you and so do I."

House looked her in the eye and his eyes seemed to be clear and sober. They were soft, full of emotion, not cold and hard like they used to be. There was a depth to the diagnostician that he had hidden behind a one dimensional mask for a long time before lifting the façade enough to allow those who bothered to look a peek underneath.

"Thirteen--." He began but she wouldn't let him say anything further.

"I know what you're going to say," she told him sadly. "You're going to tell me that I'm an idiot, that I don't know what the hell I'm talking about or you're going to tell me to mind my own business, so don't bother. Just try to consider what I just said, okay? In the meantime, I think you should go to bed and sleep this off." She patted his left knee softly and then rose to her feet. "Do you need help to stand?"

House looked at her with unreadable eyes before nodding once, curtly. The younger doctor grabbed him carefully under his arms and helped give him the balance and stability he needed to lift himself up to a standing position. Thirteen grabbed his cane and then wrapped her around his right shoulder, taking care not to bump his leg as she acted as a crutch and helped him limp to his bedroom. Placing his hands on the headboard so he could steady himself there she pulled back the slightly dust covers on his bed and then gently helped him to climb onto it.

"Do you need help undressing?" the younger doctor asked him with the same professional cool that she would use with a patient, knowing that fussing over him would only embarrass him.

He avoided her gaze. "Jus' my jeans," he told her.

Carefully and efficiently she removed his sneakers and socks and then his jeans, leaving him in a t-shirt and his boxers.

"Your turn," he told her and she smiled, knowing he was trying to hide his embarrassment.

"In your dreams," she told him, pulling the covers over him.

"How'd you know?" House responded, cocking an eyebrow.

"Good night, House," she told him and then gave him a quick peck on the forehead like she would a child she was tucking into bed.

The younger doctor started for the door.

"Thirteen," he said after her. She turned around and smiled ruefully.

"Yes, House?"

He looked at her with his crystal blues and once again they looked completely lucid. "I'm not as lost as you think." He told her softly.

"I know. Good to hear _you_ say it, though," she told him.

Thirteen headed for the door again and then left the room, turning off the light and shutting the door.

* * *

House watched his employee leave his bedroom and then sighed. He was certain that he had been over the top in his acting but she seemed to have bought the act completely. He was feeling increasingly guilty every time he had to deceive the younger doctor; he hadn't expected this kind of kindness and loyalty from her. In the past she had seemed to be rather indifferent to him if anything but now she was acting like she actually cared about him. He was having difficulty processing that because it was diametrically opposed to the way he had allowed himself to see his world and the people in it.

Climbing carefully out of bed he hopped on his good leg over to his backpack and pulled out his cell phone. Each hop sent small jolts of pain through his bad leg and he had to bite his lip to keep himself from whimpering. It had been bothering him all evening and he'd had to be very careful not to let it show by wincing or rubbing his thigh; if he had really taken two Vicodin with alcohol after months of sobriety he would have been feeling very little pain.

The diagnostician sat on the edge of his bed and called Nolan who was acting as his contact person and middle man with the police.

"Hello?" was the sleepy response from his therapist.

"Sleeping on the job I see," House told him sarcastically. "What is the news from Molonitny?"

"Sorry," Nolan said, sounding more alert. "I fell asleep reading. He hasn't returned my call although I expect him to soon. He did tell me earlier that the papers will be running the obituary for James tomorrow for a Tuesday memorial. You have to endure another day of acting."

"It would be a lot easier if Thirteen weren't here," House groused and then sighed. "When the cops call, tell them I need a diversion for her fast. How is Sara?"

"She's sleeping but very restlessly. It will take her time," was the answer.

"Yeah," House acknowledged. "Just like the rest of us. Later, Nolan."

* * *

Morning came far too early as far as House was concerned; the early morning sun shone through his bedroom window directly across his face. It felt warm against his skin but the light was annoying. He covered his head with a pillow, groaning in protest. He hated mornings. He didn't want to face the day ahead; spending the entire time pretending to be on one giant bender was going to be exhausting. If only something would happen that would get Thirteen out of his hair. He appreciated her concern and loyalty towards him, as unexpected as it was, but it was wearing him out having to keep her convinced of his fall. That was only part of the problem with having her around; she was in a great deal of danger. There was no saying that Tritter would wait until the Memorial Service. If she was with him when the ex-detective decided to strike they both could end up six-feet under. If he did wait until Tuesday and she was still present it would make it difficult to swing his cover protection with the cops.

He sighed in disgust. On a scale between one to ten his leg was aching a definite six and his head throbbed as well. It was so draining to have pain every single waking moment and often as he slept as well. Over the years he'd learned to ignore as much of it as possible, to cope as it were, and when he was still on Vicodin it was a little easier, but it was never gone. He knew it never would end until the moment he died. Every time he thought about that he felt renewed bitterness over the betrayal that had left him the way it was. If his wishes concerning the treatment of his infarction had been carried out he could have been spared years of agony.

Denying himself the luxury of a shower he pulled on some old clothes he'd left in the dresser; someone in the depths of depression and smashed out of his mind wouldn't care about personal hygiene. He got himself ready to act. He went to the drawer where he kept the bottle of scotch and pulled it out. He held it in his hands, staring at it for a few moments. It had tasted so good on the cotton ball in his mouth. All last evening as he drank the colored water he wanted to be drinking back the real stuff, the familiar smooth burn in his esophagus as it made its way to his stomach. He remembered the feeling of it hitting his brain, lifting away the stress and emotional pain and leaving him blissfully numb. No one would know any differently and he wouldn't have to act with the risk of screwing up.

He felt himself begin to breathe a little more rapidly and he couldn't tear his eyes away from it. Literally his mouth was watering in anticipation. Alcohol had never been his main problem, after all; the Vicodin had been what he was chemically dependent upon. Just one swallow and--."

House's cell phone rang, breaking him from his silent worship of the poison in his hands. He knew he couldn't allow himself to so much as taste of it again or he wouldn't be able to stop himself. His hands were shaking as he put the bottle back into the drawer and slammed it shut. He hobbled to the cell phone which rested on the bed table and answered.

"House."

"It's me," came an unexpected voice.

"Wilson?" House said softly, his eyes widening in surprise, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He looked towards the closed bedroom door, hoping Thirteen wasn't on the other side listening in.

"Yeah," his best friend replied. He sounded like he was keeping his voice down as well. "I'm calling to tell you that you're a goddamned idiot and stop this madness before you get yourself killed!"

"I'm glad to hear from you too!" House said, half-heartedly sarcastic. He was so relieved to hear the oncologist's voice again; the last time he'd heard him the younger man was being loaded into the back of an ambulance. "You're not supposed to be talking to me—you're supposed to be dead!"

"Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated," Wilson told him and House could hear the sardonic half-smile in his voice. "House, you can't let the cops use you as bait. Tritter isn't kidding around—he wants you deader than a door stop!"

House sighed, closing his eyes briefly. "Which is exactly why I have to do this. He has to be stopped. I'm getting tired of watching the rest of you suffer because of his hatred for me."

"Nobody asked you to be our protector," Wilson responded. "Quite frankly I'd rather see you hide your ass somewhere that wave it in the air to attract him. Wait, that didn't sound all that great…."

Rolling his eyes the diagnostician fought to keep himself from laughing. Depressed people don't laugh. "The last thing I want to do is attract him that way," he told the oncologist wryly. "Tomorrow it will be over, Tritter will be in jail and I can stop pretending to be crunk."

"Crunk?" the younger doctor echoed. "What the hell is 'crunk'?"

"You are so yesterday," House told him. "Crunk is when you're both stoned and drunk. Get with the times already!"

"Forgive me for not being part of the MTV generation," Wilson said sarcastically. "Look, I lifted this phone off of my body-slash-prison guard before she went to use the lady's room. She'll be back soon. Please reconsider what you're doing. You're trained to be a doctor, not an undercover cop. Think of Chloe if you won't listen to me."

The shot was a low one and House didn't appreciate it but let it go. "I have been thinking of Chloe…almost constantly. I'm doing this so she doesn't continue to be a regular visitor to the ICU."

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line before the younger man responded. "Be careful. I don't want to have to find a new best friend."

House allowed himself a small smile. "Hang up before you get yourself into shit with your keeper!"

In that moment House heard a female scream from the living room. It was loud enough to be heard by Wilson.

"Who's that?" the oncologist demanded. "House what's happening?"

"Gotta go," the diagnostician told him and hung up, tossing the phone onto the bed. Grabbing his cane, he hurried out of the bedroom, limping quickly in the direction of the scream.

"House!" Thirteen whimpered as soon as he reached the living room. He stopped dead in his tracks. His Fellow was being held tightly with a gun to her head. Tritter stood in the middle of his living room with her. Anger caused all of his blood to rush to his head and House had to force himself to keep in check and think rather than react.

"Get your fucking hands off of her!" House says in a dangerously low voice. His otherwise soft blue eyes become hard like steel. "You want me, not her. Let her go!"

Michael Tritter smirked in amusement but his eyes were soulless. He pushed the barrel of the gun further into Thirteen's temple until she winced. House wanted nothing more than to tear the ex-detective's face off_. Control_, he kept telling himself.

"Does Chloe know that you're entertaining while she's in the hospital recovering from injuries she got for knowing you?" House's nemesis asked him, his voice calm, cocky. "I almost feel badly for her. She would have been better off if she would have just died when I strangled her. You should have seen the exquisite look of absolute terror in her eyes as they were bugging out of her head. If that clown Douglas hadn't stopped me she'd be out of her misery by now."

House bristled, nearly reaching his breaking point. He calculated his odds of succeeding at overcoming Tritter without Thirteen being shot in the head and they weren't good at all.

"You're finally going to face judgment the way you deserve, House," Tritter told him, all warmth or humor disappearing completely from the entirety of him. "But first, a little entertainment from the warm-up act." He placed his finger on the trigger of the pistol in his hand.

Thirteen whimpered again, a tear falling down her cheek. She looked at house pleadingly to act, to something to save her life.

Taking a deep breath, House sprang forward with all of the strength he could muster from one bad leg and one good.

Tritter pulled the trigger.


	35. Chapter 35

**Reconciliations: A House M.D. Story**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its concept, current story line and characters past and current are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

A/N: Sorry for it taking a little longer than usual to post this update—life's been busy the last little bit! Hopefully it's good enough to make up for it! Reviews are as welcome as warm hugs!

Songs that helped inspire this chapter include: "Unbreakable" by Fireflight and "Invincible" by Pat Benatar

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Five**

Detective Hal Molonitny pulled up in front of the apartment building and parked. He looked up and down the block for any sign of the ghost car that was supposed to be parked somewhere along that block keeping an eye on the building where Dr. Gregory House was holed up, waiting for further instructions. There was no sign of it anywhere. The criminal investigations detective had a very bad feeling. He personally knew the two plainclothes who were supposed to be keeping guard over 221 Baker Street and didn't believe they were crooked, so there had to be another explanation for their absence. He pulled his unmarked sedan back into traffic and drove around to the back of the building where another ghost car was supposed to be. It was there, but the occupant was not.

Driving up alongside the empty vehicle Molonitny stopped and put the car in park. He pulled out the keys and stepped out of his own vehicle. He was alone because Hunt was back at the station finishing the necessary arrangements for Tuesday's memorial service. The dark-haired man walked the ten or so feet that separated the cars and looked into the window of the ghost vehicle.

"Fuck!" he exclaimed, running back to his own vehicle and half jumping in, grabbing at the radio. "Dispatch, Charlie-three-one. Code 11-99 to 221 Baker Street, alley, code 2. Officer down! Repeat officer down, 11-41 a.s.a.p. In vehicle. I'm going in, copy?"1

"Charlie-three-one, dispatch. 10-4, copy that," came the static-distorted response. 2

Molonitny closed his car door quietly, drew his gun from his pancake holster and moved in towards the building. It was of old construction with no rear entry; emergency exit was via fire escapes at the back. One of the ladders was down already. Molonitny looked up and saw that the window of the second floor apartment that belonged to Dr. Gregory House was open wide. The doctor could already be dead for all he knew. He cursed himself for underestimating Tritter once again. Somebody had to have tipped him off. Someone he thought he could trust had betrayed him and that meant his promise to protect the doctor had been betrayed as well.

The detective looked around to see if there was anyone watching him or preparing to whack him before sticking the gun back into the holster and then jumping to grab the lowest rung of the descended ladder. Catching it he used brute arm strength to pull himself up to the point where he had a foothold. He was pushing fifty and had a small build but he was in excellent health and had a sinewy strength that surprised most of the suspects he had to deal with physically. Sweat was beading on his forehead and running down his back both from exertion and the adrenalin being pumped into his bloodstream. From there he quickly began to climb, being careful to be as quiet as he could as he ascended; he didn't want to alert any possible assailant that may already be in the diagnostician's apartment. His heart was pounding hard and fast in his ears; every one of his five senses were hypervigilant for any sign of a threat to his safety.

He was puffing moderately and his arms burned as Molonitny reached the second floor apartment and rested very briefly on the landing out of sight from the window. He tried to settle his breathing and pulled the gun out of his holster again. He checked to make certain that the firearm was ready to be fired; he would likely have only a split second to react and fire should a gun be drawn on him or anyone else and he didn't want to be thwarted by something as stupid as his gun still being set on safety. He pressed his back up against the brick wall and inched towards the open window. As he did he could hear talking going on inside but couldn't quite make out what was being said. For all he knew it could be the television or radio. He inched even closer and then squatted down so he could jump into the window if he needed to.

His heart, as well as his body, froze as soon as he heard the scream of a woman come from within the apartment. That had to be Dr. Hadley; Dr. Nolan had informed him of the trouble House was having getting rid of her. Every muscle in Molonitny's body tensed instantly, ready to spring into action. His trigger finger lay relaxed against the side of the trigger itself, ready to fire in a split second.

"_Get your fucking hands off of her!" _he heard the distinct, growly voice of House say quickly. _"You want me, not her. Let her go!"_

Molonitny slowly moved into position. He could see inside now. Three people were standing in the living room on the other side of a black grand piano. Even though he had his back to the detective, Molonitny recognized Michael Tritter at a glance. The tall ex-detective held a Glock with a silencer attached in one hand pointing at the head of a struggling Dr. Hadley in the other.

"_Does Chloe know that you're entertaining while she's in the hospital recovering from injuries she got for knowing you?"_ Tritter taunted. _"I almost feel badly for her. She would have been better off if she would have just died when I strangled her. You should have seen the exquisite look of absolute terror in her eyes as they were bugging out of her head. If that clown Douglas hadn't stopped me she'd be out of her misery by now."_

Molonitny saw the diagnostician bristle in anger, a murderous rage in his eyes that was barely kept in check in the rest of him. The detective fleetingly wondered where the hell his back-up was. His finger moved to rest feather-light on the trigger itself. For a brief moment House's eyes flashed towards the window and met Molonitny's. His eyes flicked back to Tritter and Hadley so quickly that it was almost as if it hadn't happened, but the detective had no doubt that it had. He sensed that at any moment now he would be forced to act and his breathing slowed to nearly nothing as he narrowed his focus on what he had to do. He aimed his gun at Tritter in the only place where he was certain Hadley wouldn't be wounded as well; One chance, one bullet.

"_You're finally going to face judgment the way you deserve, House,"_ the ex-detective declared with a voice like ice-cold steel. Molonitny noticed the slight movement of the muscles in Tritter's arm and shoulder that were nearly imperceptible to the casual observer. The muscles in his arm and shoulder moved as well.

"_But first,"_ Tritter continued, _"a little entertainment from the warm-up act."_

Hadley whimpered and House's eyes shifted to her briefly and then down to the floor then up at Tritter gain, again so quickly that had Molonitny blinked he would have missed it. He saw the slight shift of House's hips, the tiny bend in his knees. The diagnostician wasn't going to be so stupid as to charge Tritter with Hadley in the line of fire, was he?

Molonitny didn't have time to answer his own question. Instantaneously like a wildcat with its prey, House pounced!

* * *

Dr. James Wilson sat with the head of his hospital bed inclined, holding the cell phone to his ear. He froze with panic the moment he heard the scream of a woman over the line and heard his best friend say suddenly, "Gotta go." Expecting the connection to close Wilson tried to call House back before the click, but the click never came. House hadn't hung up. He could still hear, very faintly, voices from what had to be the next room.

"House?" Wilson said, trying to keep his voice down but feeling his adrenalin begin to flow, triggering a panic response in him. "House, are you there? What's going on!"

The oncologist pressed the phone to his ear and closed his eyes to block out any distractions as he strained to make out what the voices were saying. He could clearly hear House scream, _"Get your fucking hands off of her! You want me, not her! Let her go!" _

Wilson's heart froze in terror. House wasn't alone. There was a woman with him, and somebody else held the woman. _You want me, not her!_ That sentence stuck out like a sore thumb. The person who had the woman wanted House and that meant it could only be one person: _Tritter_. Tritter was there. Somehow he'd gotten through the police guard and was in the same room as the diagnostician and a woman, but who she was the oncologist didn't have a clue. Tritter most certainly had a gun. Was he holding the gun on the woman? Most likely. Were both House and this woman in mortal danger? Most definitely!

He knew that he had to let Detective Gunderson know immediately that something had gone terribly wrong with House. He opened his eyes to see the enraged face of the cop as she advanced on him from the door of the room, crossing the distance to him quickly enough to prevent Wilson from ducking when she swung at him, hitting the phone out of his hand with such force that his arm whipped back and the object flew at least six feet to crash into the wall and smash into pieces before it hit the ground!

Shocked by the assault Wilson stared up at her, speechless. There was a homicidal madness in her once pretty eyes as she formed a fist and pulled back her arm in preparation of striking him. He didn't really think about it—it was more instinctual than anything else—before he shifted his body to the right and ducked. Her fist just missed his head by a fraction of a second and slammed into his pillow instead. The doctor rolled himself off of the bed and down to the floor, tearing the IV, PICC line and all out of his wrist painfully. He hissed in response. Very grateful that his catheter had been removed from his bladder already, he scampered clumsily away from the bed as Gunderson grabbed for him. He grabbed the footboard with his left hand and pulled himself up to his bare feet. As soon as he was up he was sprinting as fast as his trembling legs would carry him. His slung arm was jolted about a little as he ran and the pain from that was nearly blinding. He made it through the door and turned left, not knowing where left took him and not really caring so long as it took him safely away from the armed mad woman pursuing him. It was a long length of open corridor that split off in two directions at the very end.

"She's got a gun!" He screamed as he ran. "She's going to kill me!" He glanced back to see Gunderson on his trail, gun in hand. She was able-bodied and strong and was easily gaining on the injured and weakened oncologist.

"Stop!" she shouted after him, literally running into a patient and knocking him to the floor as she bounced off without losing much speed. "Do you want me to shoot you, Doctor?"

Wilson nearly collided with an orderly as he neared the intersection of corridors. He was still screaming. "She's a crooked cop! I'm Dr. James Wilson! I'm not dead but she's going to kill me!" He didn't really think about what he was saying; he simply wanted to grab attention from whomever he could in his effort to stay alive. Reaching the intersection he looked down the two choices he had to run. To his right there was the passage to pediatrics. To his left was Convalescent Care. _Shit, shit and double shit!_ No matter which direction he chose there were patients that were more vulnerable than most that he would put into extreme danger if he led Gunderson their way. It was a catch twenty-two. Taking a deep breath he turned left and sprinted, scanning for any sign of escape. There was no sign of elevators but a fire door up ahead made him hopeful that perhaps it was an entrance to a stairwell. He glanced back and saw that Gunderson was no more than twenty feet behind.

He was more than winded; his lungs burned worse than they ever had before. He had just been in surgery, for Pete's sake! The oncologist knew that the only reason he was still running was the adrenalin coursing through him. Once his body couldn't produce anymore he knew he would collapse. Once he was about two yards from the fire door he saw the sign "Stairs" painted on it. Too panicked to celebrate, he headed for the door. He slammed into his with his left hand and side, sending it flying back and he raced down the steep emergency stairwell three or four steps at a time, cursing that the builders of Princeton General hadn't had the foresight to provide a handrail on both sides of the passage. He wasn't the only lefty in the world, damnit!

Down only two flights when he heard the fire door slam open against the door stop he tried to push himself even faster, fearing that he could slip, fall, and end up dying from a broken neck. _At least that's better than a bullet in the back, _his mind told him. He could hear her shoes pounding the steps behind him. When he reached the second floor landing he heard a gunshot that echoed maddeningly loudly in the encapsulated space. He wasn't certain where the bullet had ended up, just that it wasn't in him. He kept running down the stairs, knowing that he had actually widened the distance between himself and his pursuer a little. There was another gunshot but this time he saw the bullet hit one of the steps ahead of him.

_God, if you really exist,_ _I could use a little help right about now!_ Wilson muttered under his breath. A flash of a memory occurred to him: he was sitting on the lap of his grandfather who was telling him about the people of Israel, his people, when they were being led out of Egyptian captivity and the Egyptian army was chasing them. They were blocked by the Red Sea and were certain that they were doomed but God told the Prophet Moses to extend his hand out to the sea and sent the East wind to blow and part the waters so that the Israelites crossed on the dry sea bottom to the other side and then, as the Egyptians entered the sea bed in pursuit the waters were released and crashed over them, drowning them all. 3 His trained scientific mind told him that the Biblical account was a myth but he also remembered what a Rabbi had told him once at a Bat-mitzvah he had once attended, that God created science, not science God.

He reached the main floor and yanked the fire door open with his usable hand, sprinting through it, following the sign that read "Main Lobby". This corridor was much busier than the one upstairs and he found himself having to dodge around doctors, nurses, patients and visitors. He miscalculated one dodge and side-swiped a woman with this right side, jarring his arm. Wilson screamed in agony, and saw nothing but white for a second or two. Yet he kept running knowing that she was still behind him. He kept scanning for a security guard or cop—he knew that there was almost always a cop hanging out around the Emergency Department of almost any major hospital.

With that in mind he kept a look out for a sign pointing to the ER but didn't see one. He emptied into the main lobby, but still no sign. What he did see was just as good—two uniformed cops sitting at a bistro table taking coffee break at a small coffee stand.

_Thank you! _Wilson thought gratefully to whoever or whatever had arranged for them to be there at the very moment he needed them most. He glanced over his shoulder again. Yup, she was there, still in hot pursuit. He was running out of gas; his legs felt like they were going to give out and send him falling to the floor. He headed straight for the coffee stand.

"She's got a gun!" Wilson yelled on top of his lungs, earning the attention of almost every person around, including the cops. "She's trying to kill me! She's a crooked cop!"

The cops rose from their table, their hands moving automatically to the hilt of their guns. Wilson slipped and tumbled to the tiled floor, rolling and ending up on his back, again blinded temporarily with the pain. He heard screaming and yelling and people running for cover. From behind him he heard the command, "Police--stop or I'll shoot!" His vision cleared to see Gunderson stop two or three yards away and aim her gun right at him. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see her pull the trigger. The sound of three explosions occurring in rapid succession echoed across the lobby full of people.

* * *

Chloe walked slowly down the hospital corridor at PPTH, pulling her IV pole with her. Sara walked beside her as they made their way to the small TV lounge not far from her room. The nurses got her up on her feet, telling her it was time to start moving around a bit to get her blood flowing and remind her muscles what it felt like to be upright. They feared blood clots forming in her legs if she didn't get using them, which was fine by her. She was sick and tired of being confined to a bed. Just having the catheter to her bladder removed was worth any discomfort from her injury she might experience.

"You look sad, _Maman_," Sara told her mother in French, frowning. "What are you thinking about? Dr. House?"

Smiling ruefully, the chaplain nodded her head. "Yes," she answered softly. "He's in a lot of danger."

"He told me he has to do it to protect you, Dr. Wilson, everybody who Detective Tritter has hurt or could hurt if he isn't caught," the Thirteen-year-old informed her. "I told him he was being an idiot and he told me that it takes one to know one. He's so immature!"

A chuckle left Chloe's mouth. That he was—or could be. One moment he was sarcastic, serious, surly, brilliant and childish; the next he was playful, witty, insightful, compassionate and child-like. He was certainly not boring. She hoped he survived this so she had the chance to solve the puzzle that he was, but she serious doubted that she ever would.

"You two are very much alike," the woman told her daughter teasingly. "That's why you bicker--." She stopped short and stopped talking, her eyes widening in surprise. Someone had whispered something in her ear. She turned around, expecting to see a nurse standing behind her speaking into her ear, but there was no one anywhere near her other than Sara, and she had been looking at the teenager. It hadn't been her. She was certain she had heard it, though.

"What's wrong?" Sara asked her worriedly. "Do you need me to get help?"

Chloe shook her head. "Did you hear something? A whisper, perhaps?"

Her daughter looked up at her curiously. "A whisper? No, I didn't hear anything—I was listening to you."

Shaking her head in confusion, Chloe sighed and said, "I think I want to return to my room."

Nodding, Sara took her free hand and they turned around, heading back in the direction from which they had come.

"Are you in pain? Sick?"

"No," Chloe answered honestly. There was definitely something going on with her, but it wasn't pain or illness—or physical illness, that is. Did she actually hear a whisper or had it been something else—the shuffle of her foot, the movement of the hospital robe she wore? It sounded like it came from something or someone outside of herself, not something she had generated in her own mind. Of course, she reminded herself, hallucinations were supposed to sound, appear and feel outside of and apart from the person having them.

As they reached the door of her room she heard it again, a little louder than before, and stopped in her tracks. The hair on her body was standing on end.

"Did you hear it again?" Sara asked, sounding scared. Chloe nodded so her daughter asked, "What did it say?"

Chloe met her daughter's gaze. "It said 'Pray now'."

The teenager nodded, a little smile crossing her lips. "The still, small voice."

The chaplain nodded. "You believe me, don't you?" It was more a statement than a question. Sara nodded, and led her mother to the hospital bed and helped her into it. Chloe couldn't tell if her daughter was simply humoring her or if she truly believed her mother had heard an actual disembodied whisper in her ear.

"Yes, I do _Maman_. I think you should do what it said—just in case."

Nodding, Chloe grabbed Sara's hand and bowed her head. She had no idea what it was she was supposed to pray about but she felt in her bones that that it had to do with House and Wilson. She tried to force all other thoughts out of her mind and focused on God and his sovereignty.

She began to pray.

* * *

House sprang with all of his strength but instead of aiming directly for Tritter the diagnostician directed himself at Thirteen. He hit her with his hands on her shoulders, knocking her backwards, hyperextending Tritter's left arm backwards and twisting him around a fraction of a second before his index finger pulled the trigger of his Glock nine millimeter. The bullet just missed Thirteen's face and slammed into a display case, shattering the glass door. Thirteen hit the floor hard on her back with the diagnostician landing on top of her, covering her body with his own protectively.

At that moment Detective Molonitny aimed through the open window. Tritter had a split-second to see the cop there, his eyes opening widely in surprise, before Molonitny pulled the trigger of his own gun and fired, the forty-five millimeter round hitting him square in the chest; it exited his body through his back like an explosion, tearing a huge hole and splattering bits of bone, blood and tissue in all directions. The bullet, slowed tremendously by the density of his body lodged itself in the upholstery of the arm chair. Molonitny approached the body of the ex-detective cautiously, gun still trained on him.

House tentatively looked up, pushing himself away from Thirteen who lay beneath him trembling from head to toe. The diagnostician remembered how much force he had sacked her with and how hard her back had hit the hardwood floor.

"Thirteen, are you alright?" he asked her with concern. He slid off of her and began to look her over for any sign of injury. He couldn't see anything but she was stunned and took a moment to respond.

"Yeah, I think so. You?"

"I'll live," he replied, gritting his teeth against the pain as his fingers nearly dug into the cramping muscle in his thigh. He looked away from her to the tableau of Molonitny standing with his service firearm held loosely in his hand pointing at the floor looking down at the motionless heap of Tritter at his feet. The detective squatted and felt for a carotid pulse as House scooted himself over to the body for a look.

Molonitny looked at the diagnostician and shook his head. House quickly checked for a radial pulse and shook his head. Michael Tritter was dead.

The bullet had most likely transected his heart as it passed through his body, killing him pretty much instantly. The fact that the pool of blood beneath Tritter was growing very slowly was also an indication that his heart was no longer pumping blood throughout his circulatory system. Molonitny closed Tritter's eyelids out of respect for the body. House wasn't certain he would have bothered. The pile of trash lying on the floor in front of him wasn't deserving of even the most basic of dignities.

"Need a hand up?" Molonitny asked, extending one to House, who took the help appreciatively, wincing in pain.

"Thanks," House said simply, looking around for his cane. Part of it was covered by Tritter's body. Yanking it out from beneath it he checked it for blood (there was none) and then used it to walk around the corpse and head for his bedroom. Finding his cell phone on his bed he put it to his ear. There was no connection. He pressed end and stuffed the device into his pocket, limping back out to the living room to see Molonitny open the door to allow in back-up which had arrived too late to be of any use. Among them was Detective Hunt who first checked with his partner to make certain he was okay before acknowledging House and Thirteen, who was just rising to her feet now.

With the immediacy of the danger gone, House was able to think clearly. "Where the hell was the protection you promised?" he demanded angrily of the detectives.

"The cop watching the building from the alley was shot while still in his car, I'm assuming by Tritter," Molonitny told him, still breathing a little rapidly as the adrenalin made its way through him. "The car that was supposed to be out front wasn't there when I arrived. I drove around to the alley and found Nielsen shot."

"He's dead," Hunt told the older detective soberly. "So are Penetti and Vance. Their car was found a block from here. They both had been shot."

Molonitny cursed under his breath. He looked up at Thirteen as she stepped cautiously around Tritter's body to stand next to House. "Are you alright, Dr. Hadley?" he asked her.

She was rubbing the back of her head absently. "I'm fine. What the hell just happened here?"

Noticing her rubbing her head House pushed her hand away and checked the area out himself. She had a definite goose egg but there didn't appear to be any bleeding or more serious damage done. "You need to get your head X-rayed," he told his Fellow, now looking into her eyes clinically. "You have a concussion." He said it as a matter of fact without any doubt.

"There's an ambulance outside," Hunt announced. "I'll send them up now--."

"Thanks," Thirteen told him with a weak smile, "but I think I'll go down to meet them. I'm a little dizzy though. I could use some help." She looked over at the younger detective.

Hunt smiled shyly and stepped forward and she grasped his arm. He led her out of the apartment. House and Molonitny watched the exchange between them.

"He's married, right?" the diagnostician asked the senior detective with a smirk.

Molonitny sniggered, shaking his head, "Recently divorced."

House chuckled to himself and took one last look at what remained of the menace that had caused so much pain and madness to his friends, Fellows and himself. How many lives had he disrupted during his personal vendetta against the diagnostician? For what gain? House cursed the day Tritter walked into the Clinic and ended up as his patient.

The doctor thought about Taub, killed meaninglessly. Then there was Chase, not killed by Tritter but still a loss House hadn't had a chance to process and, dare he say it?—mourn. Yes, he would mourn his first duckling, perhaps the most promising one of the six he had hired over the past six years. He had been the one most like House, tragically too much so, it appeared. Unlike Chase, however, he was still alive, still plodding through the madness of life, still sober. The diagnostician smiled when he thought of Wilson, his best friend and Chloe, the beautiful woman he had fallen head over heels in love with on their first date. He was fortunate not to have to mourn their loss as well.

"I have a few questions to ask before I can release you," Molonitny told the doctor, bring him out of his reverie.

"Downstairs," House told him wearily. "I gotta see if the paramedics have any ibuprofen to dole out."

He limped heavily out of his apartment and Molonitny followed after him.

* * *

Wilson lay on the lobby floor of Princeton General, his eyes squeezed shut, his body trembling, waiting for the bullet to penetrate his body, shatter bone, tear through organs, blood vessels, muscles and soft tissue and by thus doing kill him. He felt someone touch his shoulder and he jumped in fear and opened his eyes to see one of the cops kneeling next to him. She smiled at him; she had pretty honey brown eyes that matched the color of her hair.

"Are you alright?" she asked him. Wilson did a quick self-inventory and then nodded, lifting himself up to a sitting position with his good hand. His right arm ached and a shot of pain ran up his into his shoulder and neck, making him wince. That's when he realized that he was only wearing his hospital gown, the type that tied at the back. Blushing he did a quick check to make certain he was decently covered; he was and he sighed in relief.

"I'm okay," the oncologist finally verbalized, suddenly feeling foolish for cowering in a heap on the floor.

"Do you need a hand up?" she asked him helpfully. _God, she's pretty,_ Wilson thought to himself, smiling like a fool. He looked at her uniform for a name tag. A. Addison. He next looked for a ring. There wasn't one; _very_ good!

"Yeah," he admitted. She extended a hand to him. The oncologist took it and she helped pull him to his feet; she was quite strong, he noted, and she was still smiling at him!

As soon as he was on his feet he turned to see Gunderson lying on the lobby floor with a doctor and two nurses working to keep her alive.

The second cop walked up to Wilson. He wasn't as pretty.

"Sir, we need to ask you some questions."

Wilson nodded. He felt stunned, like nothing that was occurring was actually real but instead was a dream. Perhaps it was exhaustion or shock.

"This way," the cop said to him, directing the oncologist towards the coffee stand and the table he and Addison had been seated at before the commotion, "Mister--?"

"Uh, Doctor," Wilson corrected. "Dr. James Wilson. Look—you need to get a hold of a Detective…uh…Hunt! My best friend is in grave danger…!

* * *

"1 Code 11-99: Officer needs help;

Code 2: proceed immediately w/ lights, no siren

Code 11:41: ambulance needed

2 10-4: Message received.

3 The Holy Bible. Genesis 14.


	36. Chapter 36

**Reconciliations: A House M.D. Story**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its concept, current story line and characters past and current are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

A/N: Only one chapter left after this one and I'm a little sad because there's so much more I want to explore with House / Chloe and Wilson dynamic, what the future holds for Thirteen and Foreman, what will happen now that House is taken but Cuddy isn't and what House's selection and hiring of a new team will be like. No story can include everything or go on forever and this is definitely the right time to end. Oh well. I hope you enjoy this update and please let me know what you think!

Song that helped inspire this chapter include: "It's Your Love" by Tim McGraw with Faith Hill.

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Six**

Chloe was reading when House barged into her hospital room, not bothering to say hello, and limped with a desperation he didn't quite understand towards the woman he loved. She looked up at him in surprise, her eyes as large as tea saucers.

"Greg!" she exclaimed as he sat on the edge of her bed, "What are you--?"

He stopped her mid sentence by leaning towards her suddenly and crashing a passionate kiss on her lips. He reached behind her with his left hand placed in the middle of her back and pulled her close to him. His casted hand went behind her head to support it. At first she was tense but quickly, as his lips conveyed his love and passion she relaxed and began to join in the kiss, tentatively at first and then with as much exuberance as him. She opened her mouth enough for him to thrust his tongue into her mouth where it met hers, just as eager, wrestling with his for dominance, which only turned him on more. She wasn't some wilting, goody-two-shoes wallflower; she was fiery and aggressive when she wanted and needed to be. She withdrew her tongue but she bit lightly on his tongue and began to leave little nips on his lips between catching them in her mouth and sucking on them almost leisurely. House groaned appreciatively, feeling his arousal mount. From the increase in her breathing and the small moans, not to mention the way her arms had entwined around him and her fingers gripped his back like talons he knew that she was growing hotter as well.

House wanted her desperately, wanted to remove all of her clothing and his and make intense, mind-blowing love with her right there in her hospital room. She appeared to be thinking the exact same thing. The blinds were drawn and they were alone and….

"Get a room!" Sara said from the doorway, in disgust. House's and Chloe's faces parted and both turned their heads to look in her direction. The thirteen-year-old stood with her arms crossed defiantly.

"We have one," House retorted snidely, panting a little, "Now get lost!" He proceeded to place tender kisses just behind Chloe's ear. She sighed reluctantly and gently pressed him away. House withdrew his embrace and sat back in his chair, pouting. He quickly grabbed a magazine on the near-by stand and placed in his lap to hide the bulge in his jeans from the minor. He looked at Chloe; her face was flushed.

"Do you have sex radar or something?" House groused at the teenager as she approached her mother on the other side of the bed and gave her a hug. "You have the most impeccably inconvenient timing!"

"I'm not kissing you until you gargle," Sara told her mother petulantly and glared at House. "Your lips touched _that_--disgusting! You should get a booster shot right away!" Despite her words the diagnostician saw a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth but the girl restrained it effectively. House gave her a well-practiced dirty look.

Smiling ruefully Chloe shook her head, still panting a little, and smiled. She looked to House. "What happened? You didn't give me a chance to ask. Why are you here and not in hiding?"

"Tritter's dead," he answered grimly. "He showed a day early, catching the police and yours truly unprepared. Fortunately Molonitny showed up in time to prevent him from shooting Thirteen and me."

"Thirteen?" she asked, trying to recall who that was.

"Dr. Hadley," Sara explained before the diagnostician could. "Dufus here nicknamed her Thirteen because she was the thirteenth contestant in some stupid game of his and because she's unlucky because she has Huntington's disease."

House looked at Sara in surprise. That was absolutely correct but he never told her that. How had she figured it out?

"Do you even know what Huntington's is, Pinta?" House asked her suspiciously.

"Du-uh!" the teenager said sarcastically. "It's a disease that affects the brain. It's hereditary, so if one of your parents has it, you've got a fifty-fifty chance of getting it. Over time a person becomes completely disabled from it and then dies. It screws up your emotions like making you depressed; you can't think or remember anything anymore. You get uncontrollable body movements then you can't walk, talk and eat. It usually starts affect a person as she approaches middle age."

"Have you been talking to Thirteen?" the diagnostician demanded accusingly, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes," Sara replied, puzzled. "I already knew what Huntington's was and when I heard from somewhere that she has it, I put the pieces together."

"Huh," House vocalized. The kid was even smarter than he thought—but of course she was; look at the mother she had. "Thirteen leeched onto me when she thought I was in the depths of despair over Wilson's 'death' and was concerned that I might off myself." He explained. "I couldn't get rid of her—and believe me, I _tried_." He sighed. "I'm losing my touch."

Chloe grabbed his hand and squeezed it with a sardonic smile. "Is James alright? Does he know that Tritter is dead and you are okay?"

"Yeah," the doctor told his love, "he does. That's a long story, too. Apparently the cop put in charge of him during this ruse wasn't really a cop. She was the female accessory of Tritter's who helped in the attacks on Thirteen and Foreman. I was on the phone with Wilson when Tritter broke into the apartment so he knew something was wrong. She caught him on the phone, knew the jig was up, and tried to kill him. He ended up running around the hospital in his 'airy' hospital gown with her pursuing him with a gun. He was lucky that there were cops in the lobby of Princeton General when he ran there and shot her. She's recovering with a heavy guard detailed to her." House smirked with amusement. "I can just see Wilson running around like a chicken with its head cut off, his bare a—uh—butt exposed for everyone to see!" He began to chuckle at the thought. Sara joined in, giggling.

Chloe looked at the two of them, shaking her head and smiling at the two recalcitrant 'kids'.

"Is he still at Princeton General?"

House nodded. "He's going to be released tomorrow."

Chloe nodded. "Lisa came to see me a little while ago."

"As in Lisa Cuddy?" House asked, a little surprised.

Nodding the chaplain explained. "She is being released tomorrow as well, as am I."

"Really?" Sara looked at her excitedly, grinning.

"Really," Chloe confirmed. "She came by to thank me for rescuing Rachel from my kidnappers. It was the first time that we've spoken where there hasn't been an air of tension. I told her that she didn't have to thank me. I invited her and Rachel to stay with Sarah and me until she's able to clear everything up with her insurance company and find a place of her own. That is, once I get my door and windows replaced and everything cleaned up."

House squeezed the chaplain's hand. "We'll take care of it," he told her, looking over to Sara.

"Who's 'we'?" the teenager asked him indignantly, standing with her hands on her hips. "Do you have a mouse in your pocket or something?"

"No, actually it's a--." House began to reply sarcastically only to be given a warning glare from the girl's mother.

"Greg!"

"I was just going to say that I used to have a pet rat," the diagnostician lied, feigning innocence. He loved the fire in Chloe's eyes. He decided he would have to do or say something every day to elicit that passion—it was just too thrilling not to! _Every day_…he liked the sound of that. A shadow of the fear he has always had concerning relationships and commitment tried to rear its ugly head, but he forced himself to ignore it. He was tired of allowing it to push him into sabotaging the opportunities of happiness in his otherwise dreary life.

Looking at him with a dubious smile Chloe told him, "Lisa has arranged for a memorial for Doctors Chase, Wilson and Taub on Wednesday. I guess we won't have to worry about including James any longer! Does anyone else know yet that he's actually alive?"

"Not yet," House answered, trying very hard not to betray himself to the chaplain's scrutinizing eye and then realized he had failed miserably at that.

"Why not?" she asked with suspicion. "There are a lot of people mourning his loss needlessly!"

"I was kind of hoping to see how many people actually faint or go into hysterics when he arrives at the hospital on Wednesday." There is a devious sparkle in his eyes and a smile struggles to make itself known. Chloe glared at him disapprovingly and he shrugged. "What? I need some laughs after the week I've had!"

After a few seconds Chloe gave up the act and began to laugh until she groaned, sub-consciously grabbing where her stitches were. House chuckled with her.

"She asked me to officiate at it if I'm feeling up to it," the chaplain said once her laughter had subsided. "I told her that I'm neither Catholic nor Jewish but I could probably pull something ecumenical out of my hat. She didn't know if you would be attending; she mentioned that you avoided the funeral of one of your Fellows last year."

House looked down at their joined hands for a moment in thought. He hated funerals—it wasn't like they brought the dead back to life or even comforted those left behind to mourn. All they did was remind one of the brevity of life and the emptiness of death. Still, he regretted not going to Kutner's funeral; he still in some ways thought it was unreal, that the Fellow was just off doing something idiotic like trying to break another world record and that someday he would be sitting at the conference table one morning when the diagnostician arrived at work. He wasn't real to him…and he realized that perhaps that was the real purpose of a funeral: to provide closure.

"I'll be there," he told her quietly, looking up into her eyes which provided him with so much reassurance. The chaplain smiled warmly.

"Good."

* * *

Wilson sat up in bed, watching television. He flipped through the channels, trying to find something half-decent to watch to pass the time. He was bored and besides his pride, nothing more was wounded from his little adventure earlier in the halls and lobby of Princeton General Hospital. His arm ached like a son of a bitch and he really wasn't looking forward to the physiotherapy he would have to go through to regain full use of it again, but so long as he kept it immobile and took it easy the pain was actually quite minimal. He wished the powers that be would have allowed him to return to PPTH after everything had been cleared up and his true identity confirmed. At least he was familiar with the routine around there and would probably recognize a face or two. House would no doubt visit Chloe as soon as he was able and if he were there as well it would make things a lot easier.

There was a knock on the door of his private room and since the walls of this hospital were not made of transparent glass he couldn't see who it was, only that it wasn't a doctor or nurse; they usually simply walked in.

"Come in," the oncologist said loud enough to be heard on the other side of the door. The door slowly opened admitting Darryl Nolan. He was alone and carried two Styrofoam coffee cups.

"Hi, James," he said with a friendly smile. "Are you up to a visit?"

Wilson grinned and waved him in. "Absolutely! Come on in, Darryl."

The African-American psychiatrist walked in and placed one cup on the table next to Wilson. "One Caramel Macchiato made with non-fat milk." He sat himself in the chair next to the bed with his own hot drink.

"Thank you…I can't believe you remembered that!" Wilson said, pleasantly surprised, "It's been what…going on nine years now since we last had coffee."

"I can remember that but I can never remember where I left my car keys," Nolan said with a smile, earning a chuckle from the oncologist. "When we age our memory doesn't erode logically."

"House is constantly making fun of my ability to remember the birthdays of pretty much everybody I've ever met but forgetting when it's mine," Wilson said, shaking his head.

"Selective memory syndrome," Nolan told him, "Its onset begins the day after your thirty-fifth birthday. How old are you now?"

"Forty-two," the oncologist acknowledged, cringing.

"Ah, you're still young," Nolan said, shaking his head. "Trust me…it's all downhill from there."

Laughing again, ruefully, Wilson shrugged. Aging was inevitable. What bothered him was looking back and seeing all the things he wanted to achieve by whatever age he was at the time and hadn't. He had tried to live his life without regrets—three wives and House later that had completely changed—or had it? Despite the storms, he didn't regret being the diagnostician's friend. For all of House's personal short comings, he had always been loyal, always there when he had needed him the most. The curmudgeon did have a heart buried deep behind his crusty exterior. He only wished he could say the same things about himself. H e hated to admit it, but when the going got tough, James Wilson ran away. When it came to being a friend House had been a better one to Wilson than he had been to House.

"James?" Nolan said, trying to get the younger man's attention. "Earth to James Wilson?"

Wilson's reverie broke and he looked apologetic. "I'm sorry, Darryl. I guess I just have a lot on my mind right now."

"I can see how being shot and nearly killed can do that to a person," the psychiatrist said wryly.

"Actually, I wasn't thinking about that," the oncologist replied with a shake of the head. He grabbed his macchiato and sipped it gingerly. "It was about House."

"Ah."

"Ah?" the younger man repeated suspiciously. "What does that mean?"

"It was simply an acknowledgement of what you said," Nolan deferred deftly. "Did it bother you?"

The oncologist stared at the psychiatrist for a long moment, trying to figure out what his true motive of visiting him really was—was he here as friend or shrink? Or was it both? If Wilson had hoped to find an answer in his friend's demeanor he had been foiled.

"It didn't bother me," was the younger man's answer. "I guess I'm just wondering if there wasn't a hidden meaning behind that 'Ah', that's all."

"Paranoia is not uncommon after the kind of traumatic events you've been through lately," Nolan told him with a small, amused smile.

Not convinced, Wilson asked, "So you weren't implying that there was something unusual about the fact that I was lost in thought about House?"

"No," Nolan told him, half-laughing. "Why? Do you think there is?"

Wilson was slow to respond. "I don't know…I guess not."

"You guess?" Nolan picked up, frowning. "Don't you know for certain what you're thinking?"

Wilson sighed and wagged a finger at the older man, "Don't play your mind-probing games with me Darryl! I'm on to you!"

The psychiatrist said nothing. He simply stared at the oncologist with curious brown eyes and a slightly amused expression on his face. It was enough to make Wilson want to scream. House would get the same expression from time to time when he wanted to irritate him without putting out a lot of energy into it.

"I'm jealous!" the younger man admitted in frustration. "It's absolutely ridiculous, not to mention a little weird, but I'm jealous of Chloe and the attention House directs toward her and oh my God I'm sounding incredibly gay, aren't I?"

"Are you?" was his friend's natural question, raising his eyebrows.

"No! No, no I'm not!" Wilson answered before the last bit of sound had left his mouth. "It's just…It's just…." He sighed, trying to find the nerve to talk. "I don't know what House told you about our friendship and I know you can't tell me anything he has said so this really isn't a fishing expedition but…Amber's death two years ago just about destroyed our friendship altogether and it just hasn't been the same since. I'm the reason for that."

"Oh?" Nolan responded, "How is that?"

"Well, I'm sure House has told you about the events surrounding her death so I won't bore you with the story…when it came to a point where she was dying and I needed to know what was locked in House's brain to figure out why so she could be saved, I made him undergo the DBS that put him in a coma and could have destroyed his brain permanently only to find out that from the moment the bus accident occurred there was no way she could be saved because of the medication she took to treat her flu. He risked his life trying to save my girlfriend whom he hated and I was so grateful I _blamed_ him for her death and then broke off ties with House. I abandoned him when he was recovering from traumatic brain injury he only incurred because he was—is—willing to do anything for me if he thinks it will make me happy and remain his friend.

"I don't need you to tell me how hurt he was…I saw it on his face the day I turned my back on him…then when we reconciled, it began with me making the flippant remark that you can't choose your friends, insinuating that we were only friends again because some cosmic design made it inevitable and not because I loved him and valued him so much that I couldn't be happy without him as my friend. Yet, he forgave me time and time again. I justified my attitude by arguing that the only reason he was so loyal was because I was the only friend he in the world that he had so he really had no other choice unless he wanted to be alone. There again, I devalued him by assuming I was the only person who cared about him or ever _would_ care about him.

"When he came back from Mayfield I was afraid that I would enable him again and help him relapse—as if he wasn't strong enough on his own to stay sober—so I treated him coldly, dispassionately. I even threatened to kick him out of the apartment because we have an obnoxious neighbor downstairs and I blamed House for antagonizing him and making me feel _uncomfortable_…again, I was tossing him away, and Darryl, the only reason he didn't move out was because he found a way to pacify the neighbor. If he hadn't, he'd have been out the door, abandoned again. That man has been abandoned so often, it's a wonder that he trusts _anyone_ as much as he does.

"Then Chloe arrived and he fell in love with her, talked to her on their first date about things that took him years to feel secure enough to tell me. She's accepted him as is, values him as absolutely precious, somebody worth risking her life to help after knowing him a matter of hours. At first I thought I was jealous of House making the moves on her when I saw her first, but that wasn't true. I'm jealous of her pull on him, of how she is a much better friend to him than I ever have been. Darryl, I've been a horrible friend to him, I don't deserve his friendship but I need it, I think, more than he does and I'm afraid that now he has someone who treats him with the dignity and respect he deserves…I'll lose the best friend I've had or ever could have hoped for."

Wilson's eyes had been tearing during his speech, even though the rest of him remained completely controlled…until the end when he set his drink down and bowed his head, covering his face with his hand.

The psychiatrist leaned over and put a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder. "Have you ever considered telling him what you just told me?"

Unmasking himself he met Nolan's gaze and shook his head. "I wouldn't…I mean, I know how, but…He would either make fun of me or not believe me—that is if I could even get the words out of my mouth. I'd be so nervous I'd start the stuttering again."

"What would be worse," Nolan asked him, "Telling him, being mocked or stutter your way through it and get it off of your chest to unload the guilt you've been carrying and possibly improve your friendship or not tell him, carry the guilt and jealousy around with you every single day and risk losing him as your friend?"

Wilson stared at his friend, considering the question. He was afraid of House realizing just how lousy a friend he was and leave their friendship behind. He needed the diagnostician. House was the Holmes to his Watson. That left him with really no choice at all. It was going to be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth and let the chips fall where they may.

Wilson opened his mouth when the door to his room opened without a knock. The devil had to have been listening to their conversation and decided to come around for a chat. House stood in the doorway and took in the tableau of Wilson, slump-shouldered and eyes red from crying with Nolan sitting next to the oncologist with a comforting grasp of his shoulder.

"I'll come back," the diagnostician said, looking uncomfortable and backing out of the room.

"No," Nolan said with a shake of his head. "Stay Greg--I'm leaving." He stood up. "I'm heading back early tomorrow morning so I'll say my farewell now, James." He extended his hand and Wilson took it. Then the oncologist's face dropped in realization and he looked at House.

"I guess then House is leaving tonight as well…?"he said questioningly, not in any way hiding his disappointment.

"No," Nolan told him. "Greg's staying here. He's better here being useful than locked away feeling useless." He looked sternly at House, who had a pleased smile on his face. "Don't forget the conditions we agreed to."

"I won't," House promised sincerely. "Things are looking up…I don't want to screw with that."

"Good," the psychiatrist said with a smile. "I'll talk to you tomorrow morning." He patted House's shoulder once before leaving.

* * *

House watched Nolan leave and then turned back to face his best friend. It was so good to see him again, alive, fully awake and looking well. It was troubling, however, to have walked in on what must have been an emotion-charged conversation. He knew he had to learn how to knock. He'd get it someday. Wilson was always a bit of a softy in some ways; he'd get teary-eyed long before the diagnostician would but he didn't sob very often, if you don't count the period surrounding Amber's death. It upset him, but House wouldn't let it show.

He limped over to the chair Nolan had vacated and sat down, grunting a little with pain in his leg which he then extended out in front of him. He leaned his cane against the table.

"So," House said, feeling uncomfortable. He didn't know what to say about the tears but didn't want to let it go. Avoiding what was unpleasant, he had learned in 'Group', didn't get rid of it. "What's with the waterworks? Somebody kill a kitten or something?"

Shaking his head Wilson looked over at the diagnostician, a sardonic smile on his lips.

"Tactful as always, I see," the oncologist quipped. "Some things never change, do they?"

"If it ain't broken," House stated with a nod, "don't fix it." He grew more serious. "Are you okay? Nothing got rattled around too much during your marathon this morning?"

"Everything is still exactly where it belongs," Wilson assured him, trying hard not to smile bashfully. Unfortunately he was unable to hide the blush that appeared at his cheeks. "How much time have you got?"

House scowled suspiciously. "Why do I get the feeling we're going to talk about something awful and icky like our _feelings_?"

"Because you're a very astute man," was the wry reply.

House sighed dramatically. "Ohh-kaay. Let's get this over with so we can watch the third period of the hockey game in peace."

Wilson took a deep breath and then, before he could chicken out, began telling House, pretty much word for word what he had told Nolan only minutes earlier. He spoke quickly but clearly, not pausing long enough for House to make any comments. He tried to maintain eye contact with his friend as he spoke and more tears floated in his eyes by the time he was done.

The diagnostician was pretty much floored by the revelation he just received. His eyes were stinging with tears; he forced himself to keep listening and not avoid the emotions evoked by the memories of the events of the past two years. He _had_ been hurt—badly hurt—by the rejection and abandonment. It had bruised his self-esteem and there was anger underneath a layer of denial.

"I'm so sorry, Greg." Wilson told him at the end. "I can't make it up to you, although I'd like to try, if you'll let me."

House swallowed multiple times to keep back the sobs because if so much as one escaped he wouldn't be able to hold back the rest.

"So," the diagnostician said softly, unable to look Wilson in the eye. "Exactly how much do I really mean to you, then, now that you've had this…epiphany?" One tear escaped and rolled quickly down his face.

"Greg, look at me." The younger man said to him. House simply couldn't…not until he knew what this man, whom he loved, thought of him.

"No," was the answer. "Not until you answer me."

With a heavy sigh, Wilson said, "It took all of this to make me realize how great…a man you really are. I-I can't b-begin to compete w-with you, I can only hope to become the kind of friend you've been to me."

House bit his lower lip hard. "That's not an answer to my question, Wilson," he told him, an edge to his voice this time. "You mean everything to me. You, Chloe…I need both of you. I can't bear the thought of something happening to either one of you. We…we've got history. That's something I can't say about Chloe and me…yet. I'd love you and….and _esteem_…you even if you didn't have anyone else but me and I wouldn't make you feel like shit and tell you that you can take it or leave it." Two more tears fell from his azure eyes. "So I need to know the truth, no bullshit mixed in. How much do I really mean to you?"

Wilson's face was wet and red with shame. "I don't want to…I can't live a life w-without y-you in-n it. I guess you could say that y-you're my everything, t-too. I love you."

"Well, it's not the middle of the night so you're not just telling me that to make me shut up so you can go back to sleep."

"It's the truth," the oncologist insisted softly, pleadingly.

Looking up at the younger man, meeting his gaze, House searched for any sign, any hint or trace at all of duplicity. When he couldn't see one, he grabbed Wilson behind the neck and pulled him roughly, a little clumsily, into an embrace, holding him tight, mindful of his friend's wounded arm. Wilson buried his face in House's shoulder and sobbed a bit, hugging back. House didn't just hug anybody; in this hug was his expression of just how much he valued the younger man and his willingness to forgive him. He couldn't promise that he would forget, however. Whether he wanted it or not, his mind never forgot things of this importance.

No gay jokes jumped to House's mind; for once there was no embarrassment or discomfort. This man was the closest thing to a real _family _that he had ever known, the kind of family he got to _choose_ (not the horrible one he'd been forced into by genetics and bad luck) and always would be. His love for Chloe would never change that. If she loved him, then she had to accept Wilson too. They came as a package deal (except when it came to making love to Chloe…then Wilson could take a hike for a while, take up a hobby, bake a soufflé, find a pretty girl of his own….).

House broke the clutch first, but kept his good hand resting lightly on Wilson's shoulder, holding his gaze. "New rules," he croaked. "One, equal footing: we're both _selfish_ assholes, and two, _nothing_ about what just took place here leaves here or is so much as _breathed_ about _ever again to anybody_!"

Wilson chuckled as a release of tension and nodded, "You got that right!"

House grinned and chuckled along. He released his grip on the oncologist's shoulder, and sat back in his chair. He lifted his bad leg up onto the bed and brought the other one up to join it.

"Turn on the hockey game and ring for the nurse," the diagnostician commanded.

"Why the nurse?" Wilson asked, confused. He turned on the game just as the third period is about to begin.

"We need her to fetch us some sodas and pay the pizza delivery guy when he gets here in about…." House checked his watch, "…oh, four minutes or so—or it's free."

Wilson shook his head incredulously and pressed the call button. "You think of everything," he said.

The diagnostician grinned smugly. "I know."

* * *

She had a mild concussion from hitting her head on the hardwood floor of House's apartment. It wasn't severe enough for her to remain in the hospital—it really was not much of anything besides a bad headache—so Thirteen had taken a cab home, set her alarm clock for one hour, took a couple of ibuprofen, and laid down on her bed to sleep; she was exhausted from getting very little sleep on House's lumpy old couch and was still not up to par from the injuries she had received from the attack in House's office. The Fellow had wanted to sit with Foreman for a while but she had just felt too lousy to do anything but sleep. Quality sleep, however, would evade her once again since she was setting her alarm clock to wake her every hour for the next eight, just to be on the safe side.

That's why she wasn't impressed when the beeping of her pager woke her ten minutes before the alarm was supposed to go off. She considered ignoring it but remembered that it could be important. She rose up on an elbow, turned on the reading lamp on the bedside table and grabbed her pager from next to it. It read: Call hospital—Foreman.

She dropped her pager on the table and picked up her cell phone, pressing speed dial. Her call to PPTH was transferred to the ICU nursing desk.

"ICU, Gordon," a male voice said into her ear. It was the evening charge nurse.

"This is Dr. Hadley," Thirteen said, trying to sound calm, cool and collected despite the anxiety she felt. Was this news about Foreman? Had he come out of his coma? Did his condition worsen? "I was paged?"

"Yes, Doctor. Good news…Dr. Foreman woke up about fifteen minutes ago. The neurologist is in there with him right now, but—."

"I'm on my way," the Fellow said, cutting the nurse off and the hanging up on him. A giant smile stretched from one of her ears to the other. She jumped out of bed and quickly dressed. Her excitement was barely containable and it was a reminder to her that despite her anger at the neurologist for being a jerk of a boss, she still cared for him, maybe even felt the word that started with an L and ended with an E.

Since her car was still parked in her stall in the hospital parking lot since Saturday afternoon she took a cab back to PPTH. Thirteen couldn't stop thinking about how good it would feel to see Foreman awake, but she also had to temper her enthusiasm with the fact that he could have serious neurological deficits due to the anoxia the brain suffered thanks to the cyanide. She wasn't certain how she would handle it if the damage proved to be extensive, especially if the deficit turned out to be cognitive in nature. Blindness, deafness, in ability to swallow, to walk, to talk—they were horrible but one could overcome them to live a relatively fulfilling, happy life; if his intelligence, reasoning or memory was damaged, the neurologist would live, but she had no idea what kind of quality of life he would have.

At the hospital she literally ran through the lobby to the elevator, but it was taking too long so she headed to the stairs and climbed then two at a time. She didn't slow down until she reached ICU. Panting lightly she rushed past the nursing station and headed directly to Foreman's room. She could see through the walls before she even arrived at the door the Neurology Attending talking to him. That was a good sign…a _very_ good sign!

Thirteen knocked on the door out of habit but didn't bother to be welcomed in; she slid the door open and hurried into the room. She couldn't keep the grin off of her face when she saw his open eyes and his head nodding to what the doctor was telling him. Both looked at her when they heard the door open. Thirteen didn't notice the puzzled look on the Attending's face , paying attention to Foreman alone. When her ex-boyfriend locked eyes with her and smiled with recognition, her eyes became misty. She didn't care. Approaching the bed she grinned down at him.

"It's good to see you awake," she told him, barely restraining herself from hugging the stuffing out of him. _Be cool, fan-girl!_ She thought, rueful.

"I-It good t-o s-see you," he said with a great deal of difficulty. Thirteen didn't allow her grin to fade, even though she was concerned with his obvious speech deficit. She reminded herself that speech could be relearned, new neural pathways could be built to overcome it, and he was capable of saying words in a logical way. If this was the only real damage he had to overcome, he was laughing.

The Fellow grabbed his hand in both of hers and held onto it like she was afraid to lose him if her grip wasn't firm enough.

"He's doing great, Doctor," the Attending told her optimistically. "A quick test just now has shown that he's having some difficulty with speech and motor coordination but both appear to be mild in degree and may improve over the next couple of days. We'll be running more comprehensive tests including an MRI and PET scan starting tomorrow morning and that'll give us a better idea of what damage may have been done." He rose from where he'd been perched on the edge of the bed. "If you have any questions just have me paged."

Thirteen nodded quickly, anxious for him to leave. Once he was gone she sighed in relief.

"H-how…ere…y-you?" Foreman said. She could see the disappointment and frustration in his eyes with the speech deficit.

"Good," she told him, touching the light dressing covering the stitches on her neck where she had been slashed. "I'm healing fine. I don't think I'll feel safe alone in House's office again, but whatever."

Foreman smiled at that. "H-house?"

Guessing that he was asking her what was happening with House and the attacks she answered. "It's over. It turns out that Lucas Douglas had teamed up with an ex-detective who was holding a grudge against House—Michael Tritter?—to punish, torture and kill House and those who had 'tainted' themselves by closely associating with him."

Foreman appeared dumbfounded, shaking his head in disbelief.

"The good news is, they're both dead as is one accessory and one is currently in hospital after trying to kill Dr. Wilson and being shot by the police," she continued, pulling up a chair to sit down. "Lucas wanted to scare and punish House for his interest in Cuddy and Tritter wanted revenge…."

Thirteen continued to tell him the whole account as he sat, listening as intently as he could, until he fell asleep. She sat for a few minutes, watching him pensively before settling in to sit with him for the night.

* * *

Lisa Cuddy sat up in her hospital bed with files of reports, patient files and other work lain out across her lap. She had conned-slash-intimidated her assistant to bring her some of the paperwork backing up on her, in spite of the fact that she was told to rest and take it easy. The problem was every time she tried to meditate or sleep she wouldn't be able to because she had too much going on in her head. She had last minute details to see taken care of for the memorial the next day, schedule adjustments to see to and approve to cover the losses of Chase and Taub and the recuperation of Foreman, Wilson and LaSalle; she was grateful to have learned from House that Wilson was still alive—grateful and pissed off for having to go through the emotional turmoil of grieving for her friend for no reason! She couldn't understand why she wasn't let in on the plan, but House had simply told her to give extra clinic hours to the police, not to him because it was their decision, not his.

She was also relieved to know that her Chief of Diagnostic Medicine was staying in Princeton and only taking Tuesday off for the memorial, which, to her surprise, he was planning on attending. She knew that had to be the influence of Chloe LaSalle on him. It amazed her to see how quickly House had fallen for the chaplain—and the fact that she was a _chaplain_—and was acting to please her without being nagged or guilted. That knowledge brought her enormous regret and shame . While House had told her that what Lucas had done was not her fault, she couldn't help but feel guilty for forming a relationship with him and bringing him into their lives. She had been so stupid! As a result of that stupidity she had strained her friendships with Wilson and House nearly to the breaking point. She regretted most choosing Lucas over House and hurting the diagnostician as badly as she had. She could have been the one he was doting over if she hadn't been wearing blinders to Lucas' manipulations.

Now she was alone, and it was her damned fault! At least she had Rachel. Every time she thought about how close she came to losing her baby too she shuddered. To the woman she envied the most for House's love she owed a debt she could never repay and that same woman was kind enough to welcome her and Rachel into her home until Cuddy could find a suitable place of her own. It caused the Dean of Medicine to pause and question if House wasn't better off with Chloe LaSalle than he would have been with her.

Regardless, she would never be able to forgive herself for her blind stupidity nor stop regretting what could have been if only she would have listened to the warnings of her friends. Working, keeping her mind engaged, helped her not to dwell on those things, so that's what she would do. She still had her job which she was damned good at and for the time being, that would have to be enough.


	37. Chapter 37

**Reconciliations: A House M.D. Story**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its concept, current story line and characters past and current are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

A/N: I want to thank everyone who has read this story! I hope you enjoyed it…it was a labor of love for me! Since season 4 I had the idea of House meeting and falling in love with a woman who would truly love him for him, dark side and all. Chloe LaSalle was born out of that and to me she is as real as she can be. Some have said that she is too good to be true or realistic, that she doesn't have a dark side which of course we all do. I would have loved to explore her character more here, but unfortunately I had to stick to what I felt was necessary to carry the plot and leave the rest out but trust me, she has a dark side. I am considering a sequel, but it will likely be a while before I write one, since I have two other story lines to complete, I'd like to try something new and I'm writing a non-fanfic novel all my own—plus I have to spend time with my family and work, too!

Thanks to all my reviewers, especially those of you who faithfully reviewed from start to end: TetraFish06, Iamawallflower, I love ewansmile, mipaturo, melraemorgan, coconut-ice22, slashfan54, fieto, LANIKI, furryface, theletterv, ghnobody, houseband, apocalyps24. If I forgot anyone, please forgive me!

Song that helped inspire this chapter include: "Forgiven" by Reliant K.

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Seven**

_Forgiven__ by Reliant K_

_Oh yes, I know this tension you speak of,_

_We're in the palm of a hand making a fist;_

_It'd be better for one of us to speak up,_

_But we prefer to pretend it does not exist; _

_Refrain:_

_And you can't see past the blood on my hands,_

_To see that you've been aptly damned to fail and fail again._

'_Cause we're all guilty of the same things;_

_We think the thoughts, whether or not we see them through;_

_And I know that I have been forgiven,_

_And I hope you can forgive me too._

_So don't you dare blame me_

_For prying open the door_

_That's unleashed the bitterness_

_That's here in the midst of this;_

_Sometimes we live for no one but ourselves._

_And what we've been striving for_

_Has turned into nothing more_

_Than bodies lying on the floor._

_Victims of falling short_

_We kiss goodbye the cheek of our true love._

_(Refrain)_

Looking across the growing assembly of people arriving at the main lecture theater in the basement of PPTH, Chloe LaSalle didn't see Gregory House anywhere amidst the numerous faces. She realized that it was still early and that he still had time to arrive before the memorial service began; still, she felt a little anxious and hoped that the diagnostician actually showed. He wasn't the first person the chaplain had known who didn't like funerals and avoided them as much as possible. She understood the reluctance. It was true that funerals and memorials didn't change the fact that a person dearly loved and cared about was gone and never coming back and that they tended not only to remind those left behind the enormity of the loss they had just experienced. She didn't like thinking about her own mortality any more that the next person. However, Chloe also knew that humans needed closure to relationships to be able to move on with their lives in a healthy way. Funerals and memorials provided that opportunity for closure.

House had said he was going to be here, and she was confident that he would be true to his word, which begged the question: why was she so anxious? She spotted Lisa Cuddy seated in the third row from the front holding a very verbal early toddler on her lap and walked over to her to confirm last minute details. It was more an effort to dispel her anxiousness than a concern that everything was ready. She needed to distract herself, not that the discomfort from her stitches wasn't a distraction in itself. She fussed over Rachel, whom she had cooing and giggling in no time. She loved babies but they also caused her a little sadness by reminding her that she would never have anymore of her own.

Chloe felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to see Sara standing there, pretty in her deep blue dress and hair up in curls.

"Maman," her daughter told her, "I just saw Fido and Dr. Wilson arrive in the lobby and they're on their way down. With both of them with an arm in a sling they look like Tweedledee and Tweedledum! Guess which one is Tweedledum!"

"I think I know," Cuddy said with a wink at Sara.

Chloe sighed and then smiled. "You shouldn't call Greg 'Fido'. It's degrading."

Sara shrugged, "When he stops calling me 'Pain in the As—I mean, donkey—I'll stop calling him Fido. He thinks I'm too stupid to know what Pinta means. What an idiot!" She reached over to lightly tickle Rachel's cheek. "Hi there, Sweetie! Dr. Cuddy, if you need a babysitter when I'm not in school I'll do it. I took a training course and I have my Red Cross certification."

"Great!" was the Dean of Medicine's reply. "I never turn down an offer of a babysitter."

Chloe checked her watch and then said, "We're going to begin soon, Sara. Start the prelude, please." Chloe saw that she was being signaled by Remy Hadley and excused herself, heading in the Fellow's direction as Sara took her place on the front platform as the not-so-gently used piano. The teenager began to play classical and more traditional funeral-appropriate pieces from heart; she was a very talented pianist, especially one so young.

"Chloe," Thirteen introduced, "this is Rachel Taub. Rachel, this Dr. Chloe LaSalle, head of the Chaplaincy here at PPTH."

Chloe looked at the widow with a warm but slightly sad smile and took the woman's hand in her own, shaking it. "I'm so glad you could make it, Mrs. Taub! I'm very sorry for your loss."

Nodding, Rachel nodded, "Thank you, Doctor."

"Please call me Chloe," the chaplain told her. "We have seats reserved at the front for family, but you're welcome to sit wherever you feel most comfortable."

"I'd just as soon sit with everyone else," was the response.

"Of course," Chloe told her, nodding. "We'll, if you will excuse me, we're going to begin."

Rachel Taub nodded and took a seat next to Thirteen as the chaplain made her way back to the front. She noticed House and Wilson arrive just before the greeter shut the doors to the packed theater. She signaled the two men to join her in the second row from the front and she had to repress a smile of amusement; they did indeed look like quite the pair. She allowed them into the row in front of her and she sat with them briefly, waiting for Sara to complete the song she was playing. Chloe noticed that the diagnostician next to her seemed to be enraptured by the music; he was staring at Sara and smiling slightly.

"How long has she been playing?" he whispered into her ear.

"She didn't start taking lessons until she was seven, but her teachers have told me that she has a gift," Chloe murmured. "She just completed Grade eight practical and grade seven theory with the Royal Conservatory of Canada. She loves to play, she just hates practicing her scales."

"Who doesn't?" House quipped.

Chloe caught Sara's eye and nodded. The teenager finished and then left the piano and sat down in the front row just in front of Wilson, who tapped her on the back and gave her a thumb up. Rising, Chloe made her way up to the podium, passing a table that held flowers surrounding the framed photographs of Dr. Robert Chase and Dr. Chris Taub.

The buzz of chit chat faded away quickly. Chloe quickly look across the assembly of people who had come to pay their last respects and was reminded again how one single life can touch so many other lives and make a difference in the world, much more so the two doctors whose lives had been cut far too short. She regretted that she hadn't had a chance to get to know Robert and Chris.

"Good day and welcome to all," Chloe said into the microphone. "I am the Reverend Doctor Chloe LaSalle. On behalf of the families of the deceased and Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, I would like to thank you for joining us today to celebrate the lives of Dr. Robert Chase and Dr. Chris Taub." The chaplain's eye was drawn to the back; the greeter was admitting a young woman who crept in and took a seat in the back row. She was thirtyish with blonde hair and a lovely face. House, noticing the slight change in Chloe's expression, looked over his shoulder to see what she was looking at. For a long moment he just stared towards the back and then slowly turned back around, appearing distracted.

Not being the appropriate time to think about it, the head chaplain continued smoothly and no one else appeared to have noticed the distraction.

"Last evening as I reviewed what I was going to say today, I realized how formal and distant the words I had chosen to use were. Perhaps that's because I wasn't as fortunate as the rest of you were to have had the chance to get to know Robert and Chris. I quickly discarded that speech and decided instead to speak from my heart.

"You see, while I did not know Robert and Chris personally, I had an opportunity to speak to a few of the many people who did; likewise I, too, have lost dear friends and loved ones and understand what it means to grieve. This isn't to say that I can know exactly how you are feeling right now, for we're all different and we all grieve differently, but I can empathize.

"There are no words that I could say today that would lend to you as comfort to your pain save this: I firmly believe that this reality, this dimension or plane, whatever you wish to call it, is not all there is to our lives. At death we do not cease to exist, there is more beyond this phase of our existence. Many of you, I know, do not believe in the existence of God or any other supernatural power beyond that which can be empirically measured by the five senses that we possess as human beings or the instruments we have created to measure that which our senses are not capable of detecting. Others of you do believe in a Supreme Power or powers, and believe that there is an afterlife or eternal existence of some kind that extends beyond the mortal. Many of you are uncertain what to believe and only hope that your life has some kind of everlasting positive influence on this world and the people in it.

For all of you, I tell you, your life, your memory, your influence doesn't end once your heart has stopped beating and your brain has ceased functioning, or once you have been buried or cremated. There is reason for the hope of more.

"For those who believe in the supernatural and life beyond death, I remind you of that truth and encourage you to take comfort in it. You understand that there more to life than simply the substantive and have hope of not only your continued existence, but that of your lost loved ones and friends as well. There's no need for me to 'preach to the choir', as they say.

"To those of you who are uncertain or do not acknowledge the supernatural I say this: I can prove to you that a person does continue on in his or her influence after death. How, you ask? Allow me to give one illustration out of my own life to explain.

"My great-grandfather died twenty years before I was born, but he exists not only today for me but also for my daughter nearly as much as he did in the prime of his life—which was his entire life, because he seized each day and wrested all that could possibly be gained, experienced and appreciated of it. He left great memories of his life from his earliest memories of growing up in Southeastern Quebec on his father's farm, which had been his father's home before him, to the last moments he shared with my great-grandmother and their children at his side. The stories he told, the hospital he started in his community and the lives that have been affected by it to this day, the testimony of his family and friends—and yes, a few of his enemies as well—all still exist today, passed down by oral and written tradition. When I look into my daughter's eyes, I see his. He still exists differently but just as powerfully as he did before his mortal body gave up. Evidence of him can be measured by the five senses in the people and the things he left behind.

"That is how it is for all of us, that is how it is for Robert and Chris. The people they loved, the friends they made, the patients they treated, the things they did all carry their lives beyond their mortal existence and into the future. As long as they live in the hearts, lives and communities they were a part of, they go on. That is a hope for all of us.

"When you leave here today, you take them with you. Remember that, cherish that, allow it to give you solace. Let it be a reminder to those of us left behind to squeeze out of every day of our lives everything it has to offer, the pleasure and the pain, the good and the bad, for both sides are the building blocks of a full life. Let us invest in the things that truly last and stand the test of time: our families, friends, our circle of influence however big or small that may be. Remember to do your best to repair and reconcile those relationships that for whatever reason have been damaged or destroyed. It may take humility, forgiveness, patience and some pain—but nothing worth having and doing comes without a little effort and cost. Money, power, fame—they are here but a moment and in the next can disappear. If that's all we have to show for our lives with this bodily existence comes to its end, then so do we. Take courage that these men lived for more than the destructible and thus they live on."

Chloe paused a moment to look over the faces assembled in that place. Most were unfamiliar, but all expressed a mixture of emotions, most notably sadness. Some, however displayed small smiles as they recalled sweeter times, some hope, some regret, some shock or denial, some confusion and some anger. Such were the faces and stages of grief. She hoped that in some way her words had brought them some measure of comfort as well. She looked at Rachel Taub, whose cheeks glistened with tears as did other family members seated with her and around her. She could see Cuddy, who appeared sad but composed, and Thirteen whose tearless eyes belied a touch of pain. Sarah smiled weakly up at her mother. Wilson, the big softy, had tears in his eyes which he dabbed at with a handkerchief when he thought no one was looking. House…his face was impassive but she could tell by his eyes that he was troubled. When he realized she was looking at him he gave her a small, almost sly smile and then quickly looked down at his hands in his lap.

The chaplain's eyes were last drawn to the woman who had entered late and sat at the back. Her face was unreadable but her eyes were teary and it looked like a couple of those tears had escaped. Chloe felt an almost urgent need to talk with her when the service was done, if she had the opportunity.

"At this time," Chloe announced, "we will have the Eulogies." She nodded towards Taub's brother who left his seat and came to the podium as Chloe sat down next to House. Grimacing a little as she settled into the seat, House frowned and leaned towards her, whispering in her ear.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

Smiling reassuringly she whispered back, her lips brushing his ear as she spoke. She saw goosebumps rise along his neck and jaw. "I'm fine."

"Pain?" he asked her next. He displayed concern in the way his eyebrows met. It was sweet, but there was no way she was going to tell him that.

"Just a little around the stitches. Don't fuss over me—it's annoying!"

The diagnostician gave her a small amused smirk and then returned his attention to the podium. Once Taub's eulogy was over, Chloe returned to the podium.

"Next we will hear the Eulogy for Dr. Robert Chase as presented by Dr. Gregory House," the chaplain announced and then paused as House rose from his seat amidst the odd whisper here and there and not a few surprised expressions, including Wilson's. As the diagnostician limped up to the podium he looked very self-conscious and just a little bit nervous. He looked at her almost pleadingly and Chloe had to resist the urge to smile. On her way down she quickly gave his arm a squeeze and winked encouragingly. She snuck a quick glance at the woman in the back; she had a look of surprise very similar to Wilson's.

Once she was seated again, Wilson leaned across the empty chair between them; Chloe leaned towards him to make up the distance.

"_How_ did you manage to convince him?" the oncologist asked her in astonishment.

"I didn't," she whispered in reply, giving a little shrug. "He volunteered."

House shifted a little nervously behind the podium and pulled a small sheet of notepaper out of his suit jacket pocket and a pair of reading glasses out of the other. Perching the glasses on the end of his nose he began to mechanically readout the vital statistics and background information Chase's uncle in Australia had e-mailed him. After that he removed his glasses and pocketed them. Chloe saw him take a deep breath and glance towards Wilson and her. She nodded her head almost imperceptibly. She found it fascinating how shy he was underneath the protective brash exterior he displayed most of the time.

"I'm not eloquent…I often find it difficult to relate to others, but I could relate to Chase. He came to work for me a little more than seven years ago as the first member of my diagnostic team. He was young and cocky and a free-thinker; he reminded me a little bit of myself at his age. That's not why I hired him; I hired him because I saw in him the potential ability to get up in my face and tell me that I was wrong when I was. I didn't need a yes man who agreed with me no matter what I said. He was insightful and intuitive, two very important attributes of a diagnostician worth his weight in salt. As those who were there will attest we didn't always get along. I was mostly to blame for that. When there wasn't an actual conflict, I would try to create one. I knew he could take it—and he did. What I didn't think about was that I was also teaching him my own particular brand of justice, of obtaining the goal, the ends justifying the means. I didn't think of myself as his mentor, but there were times when I got the distinct feeling that in spite of the conflict he sometimes thought of me as such. I don't take credit for his skill and talent as a doctor. He was a good doctor before he came to work for me." House cleared his throat quietly and took another deep breath before continuing.

"Chase," he said, "had something that I do not—an unconditional conscience. He sometimes made poor decisions, as we all do. When he did something wrong, it was his way to pretend like it didn't faze him, but that wasn't the truth. He carried a great deal of guilt and insecurity for the mistakes he made. Recently he was faced with a moral dilemma. He did what he felt was the right thing, not for himself, but for many others. His intentions were good, even if the act was not. It cost him a great deal personally…more than he was capable of dealing with on his own. It began to wear on him…the guilt, the concern that not only would he face potential repercussions but that his actions would hurt the ones he was closest to as well. He tried to hide what he did both out of the shame of having done it but also to keep from hurting and implicating others.

"Towards the end he tried to quell the guilt and pain that was tearing him apart with the only means he knew. I never intended to create him in my image, but I saw him following the same destructive path I had, which he had witnessed a great deal of. Trying to drown his sorrows in alcohol was also one of my favorite tricks. I saw his future if he continued along the path he was, but I failed at helping him. Maybe I didn't do enough…I don't know. When he was dying…I failed again to save him. He wasn't a saint, but he sure as hell wasn't a monster either. He was human, and one the best of those that I have ever known, and I tend to be quite discriminating. His death was a stupid, meaningless waste that needn't have happened. He deserved better. The world lost a fine doctor, man, friend, colleague; it's a damned shame. If we do actually live on in the memories, deeds and lives of others, he'll live at least as long as I do, and I suspect much longer than that, in the rest of you. It's not nearly as good as having him alive and with us, but I'll take it over the thought of him not going on at all."

Chloe had tears in her eyes, and she quickly dabbed them away with a tissue. She understood how difficult it was for House to say what he had and while it wasn't the most eloquent eulogy she had ever heard, but it was the most honest. He grieved Chase's death and expressed it as well as he was capable of doing. The absolute silence in the theater spoke of the impact of his words and the fact that they came from him.

He limped off the podium; as he descended his eyes were glued to the back, at the young woman. He took his seat as Chloe took the podium to end the service and announce that light refreshments would be served in the lobby. People began to leave. Chloe moved quickly, looking for the woman but she was already gone. The chaplain hurried down the aisle, dodging people as she tried to get out of the theater, hoping she could catch up to and locate the woman. When she reached the corridor she saw the woman walking towards the stairwell and hurried after her, not allowing herself to be distracted but well-wishers and people standing, blocking the passage. The woman entered the stairs and three seconds later so did Chloe.

"Wait!" the chaplain called out to her, holding her stitches, which were hurting her considerably, and panting lightly. "Please!"

The woman turned to face her. Her bluish-green eyes were red rimmed, her nose was red, as were her lips, but she was still lovely. Her blonde hair was pulled away from her face efficiently; she was dressed simply but tastefully.

"What do you want?" the woman asked, his voice sounding a little harsh, but Chloe recognized pain rather than anger in it.

Chloe stepped carefully down the stairs towards her. "I wanted to make certain that you were alright, Dr. Cameron. You are Dr. Cameron, are you not?"

The woman dropped her head momentarily and then looked back up at her, looking sad and worn. "Yes," she said simply, nodding.

"Greg described you quite accurately," the chaplain told her with a soft smile. "You're as pretty as he said."

Cameron looked at her in disbelief mixed with bitterness. "House actually told you I was pretty?"

Nodding, Chloe leaned against the wall, feeling worn out. She sighed tiredly. "Actually he used the word beautiful. Why are you running away? There are people here who would love to see you."

"Not as many as you may think," the doctor told her. "I didn't exactly leave here under the best terms with--."

"With Greg?" Chloe finished for her. Cameron nodded. "I don't know what exactly transpired but I do know that he wants to see you again, to talk to you."

Not convinced, Cameron shook her head. "I don't even know why I came today. I wasn't going to. I swore to myself that I'd never come back. I don't think seeing House again is a good idea."

"Of course that is your decision," the chaplain told her. "But is it a wise one? Is running away from hard feelings going to ever eliminate them? Or will it end up as regrets someday? All bitterness does is eat away at our souls like a cancer. But this kind is curable. First you talk, then you forgive because not forgiving hurts you a lot more than it does the person you are holding a grudge against. Dealing with it means that you can move on without it haunting you ever again."

"You don't understand," Cameron told her. She quickly brushed a tear away with her hand. "I'm the one who needs to be forgiven, and I don't think House would be able to do that even if I deserved it."

"I think you may be surprised about that," Chloe told her, smiling ruefully. "You'll never know if you run away. I promise if he starts acting like a total jerk I'll clobber him across the head again—seemed to work last time I did it."

"You hit House?" the doctor asked her incredulously but there was the hint of a smile on her lips.

"Yes," was the reply, "with one of his porn magazines rolled up—straight to the coconut. He was being a bully and I hate bullies." Chloe grinned with amusement.

Cameron looked uncertain. "Dr. LaSalle, is it?"

"Chloe," the chaplain told her, extending her hand to her; Cameron shook it.

"Allison."

The women stared at each other for a moment. Chloe held her side gingerly. The sound of the fire door opening drew their eyes upward. Standing in the doorway was House. He looked to Cameron and then to the chaplain. Chloe climbed up towards him far too slowly; when she reached the landing House put a protective arm around her waist.

"You don't look good," he told her with concern.

"Why thank you!" Chloe responded with a playful smirk. "Learn that in charm school did you?"

House's expression softened somewhat but he wasn't amused. "You need to go sit down," he told her. "You're overdoing it. Please."

"Okay," Chloe told him and kissed his mouth gently before looking back towards Cameron, who was watching their exchange with fascination. "It was very nice to meet you, Allison. I hope that we get the chance to talk again soon."

Cameron nodded. Chloe went through the door the diagnostician held open for her and stopped, looking back at him briefly. "You brought Wilson as reinforcement?"

Wilson, standing in the corridor by the door, looped his good arm around hers and escorted her towards the elevator.

"There's a sofa in my office that has your name on it," he told her.

* * *

House stared down at Cameron with an unreadable expression on his face.

"Walk with me," he told her softly not unlike he had done many times when she was one of his ducklings; it seemed like decades had passed since then. House turned and went through the fire door into the corridor, holding it open for her. After a few moments of hesitation she climbed the stairs to him and passed through the doorway. He followed her into the corridor, which was empty now. They walked side by side towards the elevators, the only sound being their footfall and the rhythmic tapping of his cane against the floor. After a few moments Cameron spoke.

"What happened to your hand?" she asked him curiously.

Half-smirking House replied, "I broke it on somebody's face."

Cameron shook her head, "You have to stop doing that, you know."

They reached the elevator and House hit the call button with his cane. "Yeah, but the guy really deserved it this time," he joked. "He was a very bad man."

"I read about what happened to you and the others in the newspaper," she told him. "Sounds like I left just in time."

The elevator arrived empty and they stepped on. Cameron automatically hit the floor where House's office was located. House hit a different one.

"Yeah, but you missed all of the fun," the diagnostician said sarcastically, but it lacked the angry edge it usually had. "Have you settled anywhere yet?"

"New York," she answered. "Until I work through a few things."

House nodded noncommittally, and remained silent.

"Chloe's new," the younger doctor commented with a small smile. "She seems very nice."

House knew where she was leading and looked sidelong at her. "She is…but don't cross her. She's got a wicked swing."

"Looks like she has you broke like a horse," Cameron baited him teasingly.

"And I hope to be ridden soon," he quipped, staring straight at the doors.

Cameron smiled ruefully at him and shook her head. "Does she know what kind of degenerate you are?"

"Yup," he replied, "and loves it."

They rode in silence a few moments. House sighed silently. This was possibly his last opportunity to make peace and he didn't want to be a jackass and blow it again. He wished Chloe was there…she was good at this sort of thing, not him. He never knew what to say or do.

"House," Cameron said, breaking the silence; he sighed again, with relief this time.

"That's what's on my birth certificate," he replied. The elevator reached the floor the diagnostician had chosen and they stepped off. He led the way down the corridor heading towards ICU.

Cameron exhaled loudly. "About what I said the other day…."

"Forget it," he told her, looking down at her thoughtfully. "You had to say it and I needed to hear it. It's done."

The younger doctor shook her head at that. "No, no I _didn't_ have to say that. In one foul swoop I practically called you the devil and blamed you for something Robert did all on his own. You were an easy scapegoat, but it wasn't fair. I just had so much resentment built up."

"Chase did learn from me, Cameron," House told her, avoiding looking at her. "I didn't make him do what he did, but I demonstrated time and again how nothing else mattered to me than finding the solution no matter what damage and mayhem I left in my wake."

"Yes," she acknowledged, "but he was still responsible for his own actions. Just because monkey sees doesn't mean monkey has to do. Besides, we both know that what drives you isn't simply the puzzle. You wouldn't kill someone because you didn't like what he was doing. You may walk over people that are in your way, but you don't go into it wearing spikes, determined to purposely crush them in the process. You just want to do what is ultimately best for your patient, after you've made them bleed out of every orifice or have one or more of their organs fail first."

House stopped at the ICU nursing station. He looked down at her and seeing the sardonic grin on her face he allowed himself a genuine chuckle.

"I'm sorry about the way I dealt with…things before," he said seriously in a quiet voice. "It was never my intention to hurt you."

She met his gaze and after a heartbeat she nodded in acceptance of his apology. They were rare, but when he made them, he meant them. Cameron knew that.

"Are we good?" she asked him cautiously.

"Yeah, we're good," he answered. He led her towards Foreman's room. When they arrived he was awake.

"Is he going to be okay?" she asked the diagnostician before they entered his room.

House rolled his eyes dramatically and sighed. "He's going to make a full recovery."

Cameron laughed and then went into Foreman's room. Foreman's face lit up when he saw her. House watched them for a moment thoughtfully, thinking how there was someone missing. Things were never going to be the same again—he certainly wasn't. He hoped that things turned out even better, with time. He had the opportunities in front of him, it all depended upon how badly he wanted them and if he was willing to take the risks necessary to get them and keep them.

* * *

When he arrived at Wilson's office Wilson and Sara were sitting at the oncologist's desk playing cards with just his desk lamp on; he put his fingers to his lips to warn House to be quiet and then pointed over to the sofa. Chloe laid asleep there under a hospital blanket. The diagnostician crept over to her and stood over her, staring down. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever known, and that was just the inside. He wondered how he managed to get so lucky and that caused him anxiety. He didn't want to screw this up. He _couldn't allow_ himself to screw this up. Somehow, he'd make it work, because he wanted this the most.

"Come help Wilson play gin with me," Sara whispered to him. "I'm whipping his butt!"

"Wilson likes a good butt-whipping from time to time," House whispered back, smirking and taking the last available chair at the desk. Wilson glowered at him indignantly.

"That's what _she_ said," Sara quipped, dealing the cards. House looked at her in surprise for a moment and then chuckled, trying to stifle it.

"Great," the oncologist griped. "Now I've got two of you to humiliate me."

"Tag team," Sara teased, looking at the diagnostician and winking.

House winked back. He decided that he could definitely get used to this. This was good.

-{ **Fin** }-


End file.
